Finding Home
by NightSpear
Summary: Stanford-and-beyond AU, covering parts of Seasons 1 & 2 . Sam has left hunting, but not everything is willing to stop hunting him. The demon's plans have been set in motion. What will it take for him to find his way back? Mostly gen. Rating for language.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen. Briefly, Sam/Jess

Notes:

1. This is about Sam and Dean—or, really, about samndean. It's biased a little toward Sam-centric, especially in the first chapter or so, but both of them have a strong presence no matter how many states away they are from the current narrative. There are secondary characters, some invented, as is necessary for Stanford-fics, but they will always remain secondary to the Winchester boys. Sam's characterization seems right to me but may not to you—I'm going on the idea of a Sam who's a little more messed up from his fallout with his family than we see explicitly on the show, but please tell me if it seems too far off the mark. As it's my first Supernatural fic, I'm trying to get the boys right, and I'd be grateful if you'd help me.

2. It's AU, following Sam's leaving for Stanford (and assumes that "Pilot" takes place in his senior year). Canon for me is the show--I haven't read the comics. Some things come earlier than they do in canon or happen differently, but this is still the same universe—I haven't changed the rules or mythology. Well, maybe, concerning psychic-ness, but to be fair, we don't actually know exactly how that works, so...

3. Romance isn't really my thing. Jess is present, there are hints and suggestions of others, but our favorite fraternal relationship is what I'm focusing on.

4. You might recognize a few lines from the show, some taken directly and others altered in some ways or said by a different person. This was done deliberately, either for irony or to draw some parallel, so keep that in mind.

5. Hope you enjoy!

* * *

_"If I'd called, would you have answered?"  
_

_("Pilot")_

* * *

The door was already open when Sam found the room, so he stuffed his key into a pocket. His duffel bag slipped as he did so, and he winced at the soft _thump_ it made as he broke its fall with a foot. 

Two people looked up at the sound, one emerging from behind a box on the far bed. "Hey," the youngest one called, grinning. "Samuel Winchester? Good to see you made it, roomie." He'd been pinning up posters, and he now slapped a hand on the wall as one unfixed corner started to droop.

Sam hefted the bag back onto his shoulder and entered cautiously, berating himself for not having learned his roommate's name, too. "Hey," he answered instead. "And call me Sam," he said, hoping the other boy would introduce himself without making it seem as through Sam were fishing for information.

He told himself it was ridiculous to feel like he'd missed something important in his pre-hunt research. Because it wasn't a hunt.

"Alright, Sam. And you can call me Steve," said Steve, pushing a pin through the corner of the poster. "This is my dad—s'helping me move in and stuff. Hope you don't mind me picking this bed."

Sam stepped over a pile of something—clothes?—on the floor and dropped his duffel and backpack onto the other bed, closest to the door. "No, it's fine," he replied automatically, clamping down on the voice that said he was taking Dean's bed and that Dean would kick his ass when he got in. "Uh, nice to meet you, sir," he added belatedly, looking at Steve's father.

"Hi, Sam. You need help with the rest of your things? Or is your family bringing it up?"

He flinched slightly. _Not_ at the mention of his family. Just...surprised and maybe a little embarrassed at the assumption, because while he saw how many boxes and bags and suitcases his roommate had brought with him, it was strange to think of owning so much that he'd need help—was that a _trolley_ beside Steve's bed?—carrying it all. If nothing else, Dean would have snorted and called him a pansy before dragging everything in himself.

"Uh, no sir, this is it. Just me and…" he gestured toward the fraying bags. He barely stopped himself and his hand twitched toward the knife at his back. Dad would have asked what he was carrying, too, but he thought Steve's dad might not appreciate the blade quite as much. Sam raised the hand instead, scratching the back of his head. God, he must be more tired than he'd thought if he was getting so twitchy. "I just got in on the Greyhound." He wasn't sure why he'd said it, since it didn't really answer anything, and he could hear Dad in his head berating him for volunteering unsolicited, needless, useless information.

"Seriously?" Steve asked incredulously, because apparently he had as much tact as Dean. "Oh…well, the rest is being shipped here, right? I'll help you with it once it gets here." Sam opened his mouth, but then shut it, not really in the mood to come up with an answer to that.

"Are you okay, son?" Sam snapped his gaze back to the older man, whose brow was furrowed, quelling the urge to say _I'm not your son_. "What happened to your face?"

Ducking away as if he could hide the bruise on his cheek, Sam forced a sheepish look onto his face. "Uh, I was kinda tired when I got off the bus and ended up walking face-first into a stop sign. There was this police officer about three feet away, and it took me forever to convince him I wasn't drunk," he added, hoping the detail would make the lie seem more real.

Steve's dad chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, I'll let you two get to know each other, then. Nice to meet you, Sam. And Steve…"

Sam turned back to his bag, tuning out the good-byes behind him. There was a chest of drawers and a desk, but he left everything except his clothes in the bags, feeling irrationally uncomfortable leaving things lying around, especially with Steve's belongings strewn everywhere. Sam often complained—had complained—about Dean's sloppiness, but, glancing back at the floor now, he supposed Dean was only sloppy compared to an obsessive ex-marine who acted like he was still in the military.

Besides, he was pretty sure a lot of the things in the duffel bag were against Stanford rules. And the law, probably. It would be better to leave them there. While Steve was squirming to get out of his dad's hug, Sam took out his jar of salt and tucked it inside a drawer, then stuffed the whole bag in it.

* * *

There was a party that night. Sam claimed tiredness from the long bus ride, and as soon as Steve had left, he lifted the edge of the carpet by the door and drew a line of salt across the threshold before dropping the carpet back over it. For the windowsill, he covered the entire salt line with a thick strip of tape for security. 

The protection runes would have been easier if he'd been using charcoal, or paint, or something visible, but his hands were familiar enough with the motions not to really need to see what he was doing. The last thing he needed was for Steve or someone else to think he was a devil-worshipper, which was what people tended to assume when they saw ritualistic symbols they didn't recognize. As it was, Sam hoped holy water would be powerful enough to last for at least a while after it dried.

Reaching into a pocket sewn on the inside of the duffel bag, Sam extracted the rosary beads that Pastor Jim had given him years ago before pouring water into a cup.

_("Keep it with you, Samuel," he said, "as a reminder of your faith in the Lord."_

_Sam frowned as he turned it over in his hands. " This is cold iron, isn't it, Pastor Jim?"_

_He winked then. "That doesn't hurt, either. However…I want you to remember, Samuel, that you can spread all your salt and recite all the Latin you want, and it won't matter a whit if you don't mean it. You have to believe.")_

He'd always had mixed feelings about those days with Jim Murphy. The older man had been friend, mentor, confessor, and teacher, and it was there that Sam had learned to perform exorcisms almost as well as Dad.

At the same time, weeks with Jim were also weeks without Dean and Dad, wishing he were with them and guiltily relieved that he wasn't. The first time had been when he was almost nine years old, and it hadn't slipped his notice that five years later, at fourteen, he'd still been left there during the more dangerous hunts, no matter how much he'd complained that he didn't need a babysitter and _Dean_ had been thirteen when he'd started hunting almost full-time.

_("You're not coming unless you're watching our backs," Dad growled._

_Sam was insulted; he'd been with them for plenty of hauntings and even a werewolf once. " Of course I'd—!"_

"_You'd what? You miss the target like you do half the time during practice?" That was a big exaggeration, but Sam had to suppress a flinch anyway because while he knew he was pretty good, he also knew that pretty good wasn't good _enough_. "You miss this time, you put a silver bullet into your brother."_

_There was no hiding the shudder that came with that. "I wouldn't hit Dean, Dad."_

"_Who're you trying to convince, Sam? You can start watching out for your brother's ass when he stops having to pick yours up off the ground.")_

They'd been gone for barely a week that time, but by the time they were back, Sam had gotten pretty damn good with the guns they'd left behind. A month later, he'd exorcized his first demon.

Staring at the rosary now, he shook head, closed his eyes, and began to recite.

"Exorcizo te, creatura aquae…"

* * *

Motels weren't quiet places, but somehow the dorm building seemed too loud, every sound jolting Sam from his restless doze. Or maybe it was too _quiet_, but there was no way he was going to examine that. 

Even his dreams, when he managed to drift off for brief periods, were odd. Not even real images, or sounds even. Just the feeling that someone was bending over him, doing…well, something, maybe. Or maybe not.

He woke to the sound of someone rattling the doorknob. He lay disoriented for a few moments, looking at a drop of something dark that fell on his pillow. _Blood?_

Bolting upright, he jerked his gaze upward, but saw nothing more than the ceiling. Blinking away the remnants of a headache, he looked back to his pillow. Nothing. Blowing out a breath, he rubbed his eyes and tried to wake more fully.

The doorknob rattled again, and he reached under the mattress in panic before he heard a muffled curse and the sound of keys dropping. He barely managed the slide the knife back out of sight as Steve fumbled his way in, laughing.

"Y'missed a _great_ party, Sammy," he slurred before staggering past to his own bed, producing a half-empty bottle of water, and gulping down the few mouthfuls. Sam winced as he tossed it aside--some of it splashing onto the walls--lay down, and passed out loudly.

Sam sighed, vowing never to complain about Dean's snoring again before remembering that he probably wouldn't get that chance, anyway.

Steve didn't wake as Sam pulled a stick of charcoal from the duffel bag, pulled down a poster, and redrew the sigils before pinning everything back. He didn't even stir as Sam fixed the broken salt line at the doorway, this time securing it with tape, too.

His dreams had always been notoriously vivid. Sam lay back on his bed, not even trying to sleep anymore, and tried to remember images from this dream, but all he could draw was a blank.

* * *

The next morning, Sam had taken a short run through campus, showered, and come back from breakfast by the time Steve woke with a hangover that Sam was surprised to find didn't remind him at all of Dean, who always managed to sound more threatening than whiny even while he was bitching and moaning. He wanted to make some joke, but all that came out was, "Hey, Steve…don't call me Sammy." 

He wandered outside and dropped into a crouch just outside the building, fishing the cell phone from his pocket. Dean was on speed-dial, and his finger hovered for an eternity of seconds over the key. Then, hating himself for his cowardice, he dialed Dad's number instead. Not to…_reconcile_ or anything. Just to…to let them know he was alive. An exchange with Dad

_("...dare turn your back on your brother and me. On your mother, Sam…"_

"…_your obsession, not mine—I don't even remember what she…"_

"…_out that door, don't bother coming back.")_

could be short, if not civil. A conversation with Dean right now would probably be neither.

A second later he realized that the phone on the other end was ringing. He considered for two desperate seconds slamming it closed, then sucked in a breath and brought it up to his ear. Then the ringing stopped, and he almost dropped his hand, heart pounding with relief and despair, but then, he heard a thud on the other side. "Dad?" he said, but his voice came out so soft he barely heard it himself. He cleared his throat and tried again. "Dad? Sir?"

From the other end, a muffled _"Who is it, Dad?"_ Sam froze.

A pause, and then, _"No one, son."_

Click. Dial tone.

* * *

The nice thing about college campuses was that no one asked questions about why Sam took his backpack everywhere he went. Still, just in case, he always had a few books to pull out as an excuse and kept the silver-bladed knife secure behind the hidden flap he'd sewn in. He'd had plenty of practice keeping the smaller, steel knife on his person. The holy water didn't look out of place in a Nalgene. 

Bobby said the water retained its power best in metal. Dad said Bobby was full of shit, but he might have just been pissed because Bobby had threatened him with a shotgun once. Still, not many people knew more about demon hunting than Bobby, so Sam made sure to refill the water bottle every so often. It was a simple enough ritual, anyway.

The day before classes started, Sam found himself in Memorial Church. It was early; no one else was there. Dipping his fingers into the font of holy water was automatic. After a week of watching the frantic move-in activities, wanting to join in but fearing missteps, the tingling sensation he always felt upon touching holy water went a long way toward soothing his frazzled nerves. Closing his eyes, he breathed in deeply as he crossed himself, then made his way forward.

Hunting had brought the Winchesters to churches relatively often, especially since they counted Jim Murphy among their small number of trusted allies and information sources. When he'd been younger, Dean had touched the holy water each time they entered. Sam suspected it had been mostly superstition, which was understandable—in their lives, some superstitions were worth heeding. As he'd gotten older, though, and begun separating truth from myth, he'd begun to drop certain habits. He was still respectful in churches, but that was all, and Sam suspected even that was only to prevent being kicked out in the middle of an investigation.

Dad had never prayed. He could bless water, of course, and recite exorcisms and perform rituals, but that was all. Sam wasn't sure whether the man was religious or not, and he'd never raised the courage to ask about Mom.

Sam had opened a Bible for the first time at the age of nine, when he'd been staying with Pastor Jim while Dad and Dean went to hunt a poltergeist—just for three days, Dad had said, maybe four or five. It had been Dean's first real hunt, and when the elder Winchesters hadn't returned a week later, Jim had found Sam huddled in a pew, crying.

The following days were filled with lessons. About faith, God, prayers, Latin, rituals—Jim Murphy's areas of expertise. Sam had been reading had just closed the Bible Jim gave him when the Impala had pulled up.

As it turned out, they'd been fine: Dad had gotten wind of a demon while he was away and had gone to check it out. The poltergeist had smashed Dad's phone, and he hadn't had time to call and let them know until they'd stopped at a payphone a few hours out.

Dean had found him in their shared room, sitting on their shared bed and fiddling with one of their shared duffel bags. He'd smirked at the sight of the book.

_("Hey, Sammy! What, not enough reading during the school year? You have to read on vacation, too?" Sam didn't dare to move, but the sullen response was automatic._

"_It's not vacation," he groused. "Just because Dad pulled us out of school again for this hunt doesn't mean—"_

"_Yeah, whatever," Dean had brushed off airily. "Don't tell me you'd rather be taking math class now? Then he'd snorted. Well, you probably would, actually."_

"_Was it there?"_

_A pause. "Uh...by 'It,' you mean a homicidal clown?"_

"_Dean! Stop joking!" His voice was almost a shout now, and probably would have been had he not been able to hear Dad and Pastor Jim downstairs._

"_Well, you'll have to be a little more specific, Sam!"_

"_The demon, jerk!"_

"_Oh," Dean said, finally dropping the bag he'd been carrying. "Nah, just some college kids messing around. No big deal."_

_Sam opened his mouth but found he didn't know how to respond to that. He snapped his jaw shut, not sure he wasn't going to start to bawl like a little kid. And then Dean would say something like 'It's okay, you _are_ a little girl, Samantha,' and Sam didn't wanted to hear it because was so mad at Dad for staying away so long and at Dean for acting like it was okay, and he wanted to throw himself at Dean and not let go except that Dean would call him a little girl and…well._

_Then Dean really looked at the book in Sam's hands. He raised his eyebrows in surprise and said, "You really are going for the whole choirboy thing, aren't you? We don't even go to church, dude." Sam wanted to laugh at him, since they were _on_ church grounds right then, but he started crying instead and ended up falling asleep curled up under Dean's chin while his brother called him a little girl and tucked him in, which wasn't so bad after all.)_

After that, whenever they entered a church, Sam had gone in trailing just a little behind Dean, making sure his brother wasn't looking when his fingers found the font and made the sign of the cross. He'd never picked up the habit of kneeling at his bed at nighttime to pray or saying Grace before meals, so when he started praying, he did so silently, staring blankly at a page or cleaning a gun or wrapped in Dean's arms when they turned in at night. He made sure Dean never noticed.

Sometimes he'd felt guilty about being embarrassed about his faith in front of his cocky, more confident older brother. But then, sometimes he had believed more in Dean than in God, anyway. Still believed, maybe.

It was _Dean_, after all.

Over the past week, Sam had lain awake in bed, imagining that he would walk outside one day and find his brother there, leaning against the Impala. Sometimes he wished it would happen, that Dean would be there, whole and healthy, and forgive everything. Sometimes he was terrified of it, and then laughed at the arrogance that made him think it was even possible for Dean to come looking for him.

Once, a worried middle school teacher had pulled him aside with _"Are your parents away from home a lot?"_ and something about an _"unusual attachment to your older brother."_ She'd shut up upon learning that Mom was dead and Dad had to work a lot to support them, because two things people were uncomfortable around were death and economic status.

Dean had thought it was hilarious. It had taken years for Sam to admit it was probably true.

Thinking of Dean these days meant imagining the blinding look of betrayal in his brother's eyes. Trying to hate him instead was worse. Avoiding him in his thoughts was impossible.

And now, it was the first time in almost ten years that he'd been able to sit in a church without looking over his shoulder, wondering if Dean or Dad would walk in…

Then the door opened, and someone—another student, probably—came in. It wasn't Dean or Dad, and Sam thought maybe that was even worse. With a sigh, he rose and slipped back out. He didn't need to sit in a pew to ask for forgiveness.

As soon as he was outside, though, the hollow feeling of _alone alone alone_ crashed over him again. He actually took a moment to wonder whether it was something demonic that hallowed ground had staved off, except he knew it had nothing to do with that. The church had reminded him of the place that had been more like a stable home than anything else Sam could remember.

Except maybe the car.

He didn't worship cars the way Dean did, but the Impala had been their constant, as far back as he could remember, even when his legs had grown too long to fit comfortably for the interminable hours on the road. Even more than the church, the Impala had been home. His dad in the driver's seat and his brother...it had been home.

The thought didn't help at all, and he had to stop to calm his breathing before continuing toward his dorm.

* * *

As it turned out, Steve wasn't really a hard partier, despite his adventure that first day. Sam got along pretty well with the guy—he was good at getting along with people at every new school. He took a few of the same classes, went out with him and his friends on Friday nights, though Steve never got quite that drunk again. They were too different to really connect—Steve's dad was rich as hell, his family lived about two hours away, and he laughed and talked openly with practically everyone. Sam had always been the social one in the Winchester family—Dean's flirting didn't count—but next to Steve and his friends he looked downright shy, even when he stood a head taller than most of them. 

It had never been that much of a problem before. As much as Dean mocked his height, he'd never really been the biggest one on the room, not with Dean and Dad there.

Then again, he was still a Winchester, and they were good at nothing if not acting like they fit in. However much Dad reminded Sam that he wasn't good enough at shooting, Sam had always been the best at seeming normal. Before long, he'd even almost convinced himself that this was what he'd wanted all along: sitting here at this table with four others from class, conjuring up smiles and chatting about nothing and occasionally cracking open a book and scribbling in some notes.

"You do the reading for IHUM yet, Sam?" asked Mike. They were in the same class, and Mike had cottoned on quickly to the fact that Sam seemed to know more than the professor about religious symbolism. "Pretty cool stuff, huh?"

"Sure," he answered.

"Not really what you learn in church, though. Not all of it, anyway."

"The class is called 'Religious Myth, History and Practice,' not 'Modern Christian Practices,'" he pointed out. "Most Christian priests aren't exactly going to teach you about Wicca and the Wheel of Dharma." Pastor Jim had, but those lessons had been interspersed with lessons on how to throw a knife, too so he probably didn't count as a usual, everyday kind of pastor.

"Well, yeah," Mike huffed. "But some stuff, like…the pentagram? Man, this one time, my sister came home with this pentagram necklace, and my mom_flipped_. Thought it was a Satanic…demon thingy." Sam didn't bother to hide his snort. "Shut up, you know what I mean."

He did know, although Mike didn't know he was just thinking of how much an actual demon would like being stuck in a pentagram. "It's more like a protection symbol. If you believe in that kind of stuff, anyway." He grinned. "Although you might not want to go around calling it a protection charm in front of your mom."

Mike rolled his eyes, but laughed anyway. "Hey, just because I'm not fluent in Latin doesn't mean I'm an idiot."

Rebecca, across the table, lifted an eyebrow and looked up at him from under the blond hair. "No one's fluent in Latin these days."

"Sam is, actually," Steve chimed in. "He speaks Latin in his _sleep_."

Sam asked, surprised, "I speak Latin in my sleep?" just as Jessica, next to Rebecca, threw up her hands and snorted.

"Wow, okay, that's just not right. I'm barely passing Latin class, and all I have to be able to do is decline 'servus'." Sam laughed automatically along with them, racking his brains for what he might have said. As a kid, he'd sometimes blurted things in Latin when he was upset, but that hadn't happened for years. And as well as he knew the language, it wasn't well enough ingrained in him to be able to spout it subconsciously. Besides, he couldn't actually remember most of his dreams recently.

Steve was snickering. "Get Sam to tutor you, Jess," and Sam saw her flick her eyes toward him and blush faintly. "Seriously, I took Latin," he continued, looking at Sam now, "and I _know_ what I'm hearing at night, Geekboy."

Sam frowned, thinking that the only Latin he probably could spit out in his sleep was ritualistic. "Learned it at home as a kid. Sorry, I didn't even know I was doing it."

Steve waved it off. "Whatever, man. It's not like I remember anything from high school Latin class. Besides, I learned classical Latin, and I'm not gonna waste my time picking apart your church pronunciation. Whatever kinky Latin fantasies you've got going in your head are safe from me."

Sam felt heat creep up his ears, wishing he hadn't said that in front of Jessica. And Becky, of course. "At least I don't snore. And going by what_you_ mutter in your sleep, I really don't wanna know what your fantasies are." And then Mike started making ragging on a protesting Steve and the topic was dropped.

* * *

Jessica found him the next day as he made his way out of the Memorial Church. 

"Hey," he greeted. They knew each other well enough to be friendly but not a whole lot more. He glanced around to make sure Dean wasn't going to snicker about him talking to the hot blonde girl before he could stop himself.

"Hey, Sam," she answered, pulling out earphones and hitting a button on her mp3 player. "Actually, I've been hoping to run into you. I've got a question, Mister I-can-speak-church-Latin-and-give-lectures-on-pentagrams…" she teased.

"S'what happens when you grow up in the back seat of a car," Sam answered lightly. "Mixed signals and everything."

"The back seat of a car?" she asked. "Really."

"We moved around a lot. Lived in a bunch of different places."

Jessica looked genuinely interested. "Yeah? Military brat?"

"Uh, yeah, I guess," he replied. Although _marine_ was always an essential part of his dad in Sam's mind, he'd never really thought of himself that way. It wasn't why they'd grown up rootless, anyway. Hunter's brat, maybe. "My dad's ex-Marines."

"I can relate—mine was in the Navy." She gave him a wry smile that he returned, thinking that she had no idea how much their lives _didn't_ relate. "On the other hand, I didn't grow up learning Latin. Is your dad, like, a traveling teacher or something?"

"He…um, fixes cars. Mechanic." Which didn't really do anything to answer her question. Sam hesitated; reluctant to say more but hoping it would stave off more questions, he added, "We don't really get along. When I left…it wasn't exactly on the best of terms." He could practically see the _I'm sorry_ in her eyes and said quickly, "Hey, you know, I started learning Latin in church, but I did study classical Latin like they teach here. You wanna study together sometime?" And then he blushed a little, because he wasn't blind—she _was_ really pretty.

She looked relieved. "That's what I was gonna ask, actually. That'd be really great. You free tomorrow after math class?"

"Sure, I'll see you then. _Cras._"

"What?"

"Uh. I was just. _Cras_. It means tomor…uh, you know what, never mind. See you then."

* * *

It didn't count, Sam thought. Not really. Hell, it wasn't like he'd been looking for it. 

Well, not at first, anyway. But seriously, he'd finished the calculus problem set so fast he was actually bored—and he didn't even like math—and his other classes weren't that much better. Art history was okay, but his IHUM class had turned out to be a joke, however interesting it seemed to Mike. Religious Symbology Lite. What the professors taught in that class wouldn't be any help at all if an angry spirit found them.

Sam reminded himself that most people didn't think about angry spirits very often, quashing the thought that _that_ was pretty stupid, considering how often spirits came up. Then he shut his textbook and starting thinking in earnest about the spirit inside Memorial Church.

It didn't take long to find. Well, okay, maybe the librarian was clearing her throat pointedly, clearly wanting to close up, by the time he'd sifted through piles of embellished urban legends, but the research—_real_ research, not the stupid stuff they did for class—had felt so _good_ that Sam barely noticed four hours passing.

Not that he'd liked it. It barely counted, anyway, just an in-and-out salt and burn, and the spirit wasn't even violent. A woman murdered in the church back in 1974, buried in a cemetery a few miles off campus, her spirit screaming and scaring the hell out of people once in a while. _A one-time thing_, he promised, feeling guilty as he stashed away a handful of salt shakers from the dining hall rather than take from his own salt jar. It wasn't really hunting; just a precaution.

He woke Steve getting back to the dorm room afterward, who mumbled, "I can't believe I was stuck writing a friggin' paper the one day you decide to shut your laptop for once. Hope you had fun, at least."

"Yeah," Sam whispered back. Not because he had. Just a standard answer, that was all. "Go back to sleep."

He lay in bed, too wired to sleep himself, and thought about how screwed up it was that the lingering, nauseating scent of ashes and burning corpse was more like home than this room.

* * *

Jess loved her music. Sam was a little surprised by her playlist. "Metallica," he stated with raised brows, scrolling through. "Blue Oyster Cult?" 

She shrugged, carelessly sweeping up a notebook and pushing back from the library table. "My dad drilled his favorite music into my big brother's head, and when you live in a house with two guys blasting their music all day long, well…It's grown on me, I guess." She quirked an eyebrow at him. "Why so shocked?"

"Oh, just…you didn't really seem the type." To Sam, Metallica meant cockiness and casual cussing, leather jackets and hard-earned muscle, shotguns and borderline pyromania. He didn't know Jessica all that well yet, but she seemed all soft curves and innocence, the kind of girl who studied for class and blushed at profanity.

Her smirk at that was dazzlingly beautiful, but somehow reminded him oddly of Dean. "Maybe you should get to know my type better." Her step toward him was teasing, coy, but with an enticingly feminine swagger in the movement.

Huh. Maybe he'd judged too soon.

Sam cleared his throat. "We should get out before the librarian locks us in here."

She smirked again, and Sam almost heard Dean's voice saying, _Kinky, Sammy_. Jessica pushed the door open and pressed closer when he tentatively wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

* * *

"So, I've seen you coming out of the church a few times," Jessica said one day. 

"Mm," Sam answered, not looking up from the conjugation chart she'd just finished. "This one, here, it should be _cupiunt_, not _cupunt_." He himself had learned quickly which verbs took an extra _i_, mostly from pointing them out when Dean missed them.

"Oh." She uncapped a pen with her teeth and squeezed an _i_ into place. "You go to services on Sundays?"

"No," he said. She was still watching him, so he flashed a quick smile and explained, "We used to stay a lot with a family friend, a pastor. I picked up a few habits from him."

"You're not really religious, then?"

"I—well, I am, sort of. It's not…I mean, I don't believe everything in the Bible or anything." Even Pastor Jim said the thing with the Red Sea might have had something to do with an undine. Sam thought it would have had to be a mutant undine, but he wasn't going to rule that out, either. "I'm not Christian, exactly. But I guess I believe there's something…some…higher power. You know? That we're not alone. I'd like to think so, anyway."

"Huh," Jessica said. "It's kind of hard for me to believe in something without seeing it. Not that…you know…I mean, I don't have anything against God or faith or whatever." Jess was blushing faintly, clearly embarrassed, curious but uncomfortable.

"No, it's fine, my family doesn't put much stock in religion, either. Sometimes I'm not so sure myself." If Sam was honest with himself, it was true, and how ironic was it that a family hunting supernatural beings was so firmly rooted in the tangible?

Or, well, intangible, in the case of spirits, but even spirits tended to throw stuff around, which was pretty tangible.

But the thing was, they were all alive, and while that might not have been the greatest feat for a normal family, with the lives they led, it was practically a miracle. Sam believed a little more every time they collapsed into ratty motel beds after a hunt, bruised and tired and bleeding but _not dead_.

_("…won't matter a whit if you don't mean it. You have to believe.")_

Unexpectedly, he wondered whether his mother had been religious, then stopped wondering because what was the point?

"Not that I'm doubting," he added after a few seconds. Holy water and consecrated iron were useless if he didn't believe.

He thought maybe it didn't count if he only believed so he could bless water, then stopped thinking about that, too.

"Okay," Jess said, looking uncomfortable with the awkward turn the conversation had taken. After a while, she offered, her tone teasing, "I don't doubt, either. I don't doubt the Force is with you, young Skywalker. You know who that is, right?"

Sam threw her an incredulous look. "I do know who Luke Skywalker is, thanks."

"Well, you never know. You said you'd seen Star Wars. Seriously, it's like you lived under a rock all your life, Geekboy." She put in her earphones, smirking at him as she bent over her book again.

"Oh, don't _you_ start that now, too."

She lifted her eyes from the book and waggled her eyebrows at him. "What? Sorry, can't hear you over Brian Johnson."

Sam leaned across the table, pulled out an earphone, and started to repeat loudly, "I said—"

"Shh," Jess interrupted, slapping his hand away playfully. "We're in a library, Sam." She widened her eyes innocently and grinned up at him.

Sam sat back down. After a moment, he grinned back and thought it might be his first real smile since getting to Palo Alto.

* * *

"You know," he'd explained once, " 'geek' comes from a word that means 'simpleton'." 

This had not helped his case.

Rebecca once told him that anyone a hundred feet tall should be fighting crime, or at least playing a sport, not outscoring everyone on exams. He did manage to nip her "gentle giant" teasing in the bud by starting to call her "Little Becky." Which turned out to be kind of fun, since it was reinforced by her older brother, Zach, so he kept doing it. Becky responded by constantly trying to make him stop doing homework.

Steve was glad to help her.

"Come on, Sam!" he was saying. "You gotta come out of here sometime. You even missed the party last week! What's that about, anyway?"

"I've got two midterms tomorrow, Steve. And I'm not a fan of Halloween," Sam told him, passing off his discomfort as a casual shrug.

"What the hell's not to like? Candy and alcohol and chicks dressed up as…like…I don't know what they were supposed to be, man but they were wearing the tiniest dresses ever. Dude," he waggled his eyebrows, "Jess went as a _nurse_. I think she was missing her favorite patient."

"Shut up," Sam muttered. Yeah, he'd misjudged her at first glance. She was smart and acted like the naïve schoolgirl, but she liked the skimpy nurse—and, actually, schoolgirl—costumes. Sam wasn't complaining.

"You're such a prude. Seriously, dude, she told Becky she's getting an A in Latin now. Must be all that 'studying' you two are doing."

"Yeah," Sam said firmly, though not firmly enough to hide his blush. "She's been_studying_ hard." When Steve snorted, he warned, "You keep your head in that gutter all the time? 'Cause someone might come along and step on it."

"Aw, how sweet…_Sammy's_ all protective of his girl."

A pang stabbed through him, honed rather than dulled by the months of absence and the tenseness he'd lived through during Halloween, and his voice was sharper than he'd intended when he said, "Jesus, Steve, how many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me that!"

Steve jumped, raising his hands placatingly but clearly a bit annoyed. "Well, shit, man. What's up your ass?"

Sam blew out a breath, a little surprised himself, and raked a hand through his hair. "Sorry. Didn't get a lot of sleep" he hadn't since coming to Stanford, though stress had made it worse lately— "and I'm tired, and…look, it's just something my brother used to call me, okay?"

By now his friends knew him well enough that mention of his family was usually enough to make them stop asking. Steve, though, had his head cocked to the side and had a question written clearly in his eyes.

"Your brother Dean?" he asked.

Sam dropped his hand. "Wha-- How'd you know?" He didn't think he'd mentioned Dean's name to anyone.

"Well, you know how I said you talk in your sleep? You've said his name a few times. I heard you on the phone yesterday, leaving a message for Dean, and since you've been pining for Jess, I figured it wasn't…you know. An ex. Or something." Steve's look of annoyance had morphed into apprehension.

And now Sam was a little too weirded out to deny that he was crushing pretty hard on Jess, because, besides the naked-in-class-forgot-my-homework ones, he still couldn't remember most of his dreams—and now, he really wanted to know what the hell was playing in his brain at night, if it involved Latin and Dean and that shivery sense of desperation and foreboding he always woke with.

Steve had swallowed his hesitance and continued, "And I know how you don't like to talk about your folks, and that's cool, really, not my business or anything…It's just, I've never seen you lose your temper about anything except stuff like…like the _Sammy_ thing—which I get, dude, and I won't do it again—and I remember how you showed up that first day by yourself with, like, a backpack and this bruise on your face, and I was wondering…" He cut himself off to take a breath and went on, as if trying to get it all out, "You sounded pretty upset on the phone…"

Sam wasn't touching that one with a ten-foot pole from inside a circle of protection. Not everything that haunted you was scared of salt. So…

"Dean's my older brother," he interrupted quickly. "My mom died when I was a baby, and my dad sorta lost it a little. Moved around a lot. Dean practically raised me. Dad was pissed when I wanted to go to college. We had an fight, Dean—" _didn't have a choice_ "—stayed, Dad…said some things, I said some things, I left. That's it." His life in a nutshell, minus a few ghosts and demons.

"Well, he sounds like a supportive older brother."

Anger was starting to curl around the edges of his mind, and he held it back with the calmest expression in his arsenal while at the same time clutching to the irritation to keep everything else at bay. "Don't talk about him like that," he said, his voice coming out quiet and controlled. "Dean's…you don't know anything about him." _Leave it alone, leave it alone, just shut up about it—_

Steve raised his hands again but this time in surrender. "Alright, fine. I'll stay out of it. You just keep your weirdo dreams away from my side of the room."

Sam bit down on the retort he had prepared and decided maybe he could joke his way out of this one, too. "Not a problem, man, I don't swing that way."

His roommate laughed, still sounding a little uncomfortable. "Yeah, got the memo. _Tutoring_ the chick down the hall. So, last chance, you comin' or what?"

A relieved sigh. "Midterms, Steve. Homework. GPA. Ring a bell?"

"Not really," came the cheerful answer. "Have fun with your books then, Geekboy. I'll tell Jess you wanna have another study session tomorrow."

The door slammed. "Jer—" Sam sighed and changed his mind. "Asshole."

His pocket buzzed, and he told himself he wasn't going to answer the phone. Only two numbers elicited a silent ring.

His fingers had other ideas and fished the damn thing out anyway, but his thoughts must have been frantic enough to freeze the traitorous digits before they could flip it open. The breath that _whooshed_ out of him when he stuffed the phone back into his jeans was a sigh of relief. Not a sob.

While Steve was away, he refilled his bottle with water. "Exorcizo te, creature aquae, in nomine Dei Patris…" he began, then stopped as his father's face flashed through his head.

_("Who is it, Dad?" Dean, God, Dean's voice._

"_No one, son.")_

Sam shook his head. Jesus. Focus. "Exorcizo te…"

_("…have to believe…")_

Gritting his teeth—in annoyance, _not_ shame—he poured the water down the sink and set off to the church instead. At this hour, no one would notice him taking a little water from the font.

* * *

Next Chapter: Exposition time's up--the plot begins... 


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen. Briefly, Sam/Jess

XXXXX

_"You hate me that much? You think you can kill your own brother?" _

_("Asylum") _

XXXXX

Psychology majors, Sam decided, were dangerous. The combination of their desire to be everyone's shrink and a lack of knowledge, training, and experience was enough to give him a headache. That was on days when he didn't wake up from some vague nightmare _already_ nursing a headache, which, while not exactly unusual for him, was a little out of the ordinary.

Jess, who was pre-med, had decided she wanted to be a psych major. Steve wasn't pre-med, but because Sam was as lucky as any Winchester, his roommate was training to dig inside people's heads, too. They both knew as much about John and Dean Winchester as anyone else around Sam, which wasn't much, and Sam was starting to wonder whether they were exchanging information about him.

They looked at him oddly sometimes, too, in that _God-I-think-he's-going-crazy_ sort of way. Steve had once picked at the duct tape across their window sill until it ripped at the end and broke the salt line. Steve had looked amused until Sam had freaked out.

It was pretty stupid, yeah. Steve hadn't thought it was stupid so much as a really weird form of paranoia. Then he'd said, "I guess this was something your dad used to make you do?"

Looking back on it, Sam was pretty sure he'd actually growled—there might have been words involved, but he was too busy sifting through his duffel bag for salt jar to notice.

A few months ago, he never would have let it show how much things like that meant to him—it wasn't a gigantic leap from salt superstitions to runes drawn on the walls, and that could lead to the Winchester family business. But the longer Sam went without working on a case, or at least hearing Dad or Dean or Bobby or someone talk about a case, the more uneasy he felt.

It was harder than he'd thought, knowing the truth and hoping it wouldn't find him. Every shadow looked more sinister than it should; every flickering lamp put him on edge.

He suspected Jess had probably heard about the salt line incident, too. He should feel lucky to be close to Jess and Steve, he supposed, but these days they'd really starting tiptoeing around him. He could see them holding back questions about his family—it was what every school psychologist he'd been forced to talk with had wanted to know about—but they were remarkably good at backing off, too. He tolerated their concern as long as they didn't push too hard.

Once, while studying in a group with others, Mike mentioned something about salt used for purification from the Religions class. Sam saw Steve's eyes flicked toward them, but he said nothing . Hopefully, he'd assume the salt lines were just superstition and nothing else.

* * *

Sam stabbed Dean in the chest one night. 

It was a dream, of course, but that didn't really make it better. He was almost glad for the headache he had when he woke.

Until his psych-major friends met up with him and noticed. He stomped hard on the irritation that tried to well up at the _look_ they exchanged over his head, which they could do for once since they'd flanked him as he sat on a bench waiting for them. "What?" he snapped.

"You feeling okay?" Jess asked, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "I know you haven't been sleeping well these last few days. I'm worried, Sam."

Okay, no question: they were definitely sharing information. Steve meant well, so Sam settled for glaring at him and tried not to feel like he was being betrayed, since it reminded him too much of

_("You're betraying this family, Sam.")_

the fight with Dad, and drawing that parallel would put Sam in Dad's place, and that was never, ever going to happen.

"S'just a headache, Jess," he sighed, because she meant well, too, and because it was harder to glare at her earnest face than at Steve's _what'd-I-do_ look.

Last night's dream had been unusually clear. Especially compared to the hazy impressions from the past few months, it had been really damn vivid. Even so, there had still been something missing when he'd woken up that morning, as if he'd been watching a scene play out but missed the most important part. Like everything would make sense if he'd known…well, whatever it was he'd missed. He couldn't explain exactly why he'd felt so _wrong_ when he'd woken up; why he'd had to run to the shower because he'd felt so unclean.

Although that might have had something to do with watching himself pick up a knife from the ground and stab Dean in the fucking chest.

_Just a dream_, he told himself, but it was yet another item in the his list of treasons against his family, and what kind of messed up psyche would imagine up something like that anyway? Which brought him back to the psych majors staring at him and his headache, which hadn't left him alone since he'd woken up.

Maybe it was a penance-headache or something—he certainly felt guilty enough for it after watching Dean slump to the snow-carpeted ground.

In the dream, obviously. But still.

"Look, we should get going," he said, standing. "It's getting pretty cold, I wanna get inside."

"I can't believe I'm going to be studying on Saturday night," Steve groaned but hitched his backpack higher.

Jess shook her head, wrapped an arm around Sam's, and walked off toward the library. "I can't believe you study, period," she shot back at him. "Jesus, you're right, Sam. It's freezing. I thought it was supposed to be warmer in California."

"We usually get great weather here," Steve responded, sounding almost defensive. "Doesn't mean it can't get a little chilly sometimes. Supposed to snow tonight," he added.

Almost four hours later, the three of them were walking together back to their dorms, tired of studying but finally done with their group project due the following week. At nearly midnight in the unseasonably cold late November, even a college campus was nearly empty of people. Sam's eyes were still trying to adjust to the darkness that seemed somehow darker than usual. Which was pretty stupid because it was just a new moon and because he'd spent his _life_ before now preparing to hunt dark things in the dark. Now, however, he was more tired than a college freshman should be before a weekend midnight, and he wasn't in the mood to think about irony.

"It's kinda creepy out here," Jess said suddenly.

Steve scoffed. "Yeah, Saturday night on a college campus, walking in a group of three. It's not like anyone'll mug us with giant Geek-boy shadowing us." Sam rolled his eyes obligingly.

"Shut up, idiot. I just meant, what's _he_ doing out here alone at this hour? There, just off the church grounds."

Sam felt a prickling sensation on his back. Following Jess's gaze, he saw the man standing at the edge of campus, hands in the pockets of his black coat and _staring back at Sam_. And it only took a second for Sam to recognize him.

"Dad?"

Two heads whipped around to him, and he took an unconscious step back, then turned back the way they'd been going. "Let's go," he said tightly. Jesus Christ, there was no way he was going to do this now, here, in front of them.

"Wha—Sam, what the hell? That's your--?"

But Jess's question was cut off by the louder, more powerful growl: "Sam! Don't you walk away from me again."

The words doused him in a sudden, overwhelming jumble of confusion, incredulity, hurt…but to the top swam a rage so intense that even he knew probably wasn't justified. He'd never been very rational when it came to arguments with Dad.

He took a shaky breath. "Steve, take Jess back to the dorm—"

"I don't need an_escort_, Sam—"

"No, man, we're not gonna—"

"This is none of your business!" Sam hissed, jumping when Jess's hand found his arm again.

"We'll stay back," she said, her voice soft, as if she were soothing a spooked animal. Or a crazy psychiatric patient. Fuck. "It's dark. I'd rather have my giant Geek-boy with me."

Steve was looking unusually obstinate, so Sam took another step back and said, "Fine. Fine, but just…stay out of it, okay? Stay over by the church. This shouldn't take long." The anger rose again, as he turned back toward the dark figure, not waiting to see if his friends had listened.

The last few months had been so long it was hard to believe it had only been a few months since he'd seen John Winchester. Months of trying and failing to reach them until he'd stopped trying; months of masking panic with resentment when his own phone rang until they'd stopped trying, too. Months of hoping, wishing, praying, in those moments when he forgot to be angry.

And now…

"What are you doing here?" he said, tamping down the bubbling rage but knowing it would explode, just like it always did.

"Those your friends?" came the familiar voice, soft, but with the dangerous tone that usually meant Sam had screwed up. Sam had heard it a lot. Dad's eyes flicked briefly toward Jess and Steve before turning back on Sam.

"You leave them out of this. Answer my question, Dad—"

"They easier to deal with than your own family, _son_? With their happy, normal lives?"

Sam glared back, feeling his voice start to rise. "Oh no. No no no, you don't get to do this. You're the one who told me if I was gonna leave I should stay gone! What do you want?"

"I want you to stop acting like a spoiled teenager—"

"How dare you!" Sam didn't even try to stop himself as the shout ripped out of him. "Showing up like that, after…I left all this behind, Dad! I just wanted my own life!"

John hadn't even moved, but his stance was the same as Sam remembered it, the way he always stood. And his eyes were…. Sam felt his own rage waver at the sight of the emotion burning in his dad's. He'd been mad as hell before, but only once before had Sam seen that look, the one that said he was so mad he wanted to beat the shit out of his disobedient son.

"Did you bother asking your brother what he wanted when you walked out on us? You bother to even tell him before you turned tail and ran?"

Sam sucked in a breath. John Winchester had no qualms about cheap shots, and he knew exactly where it would hurt the most. "Don't…I was leaving _you_, Dad, leaving _hunting_. Not Dean." Never Dean.

He took an involuntary step back, and his dad gave the disgusted, bitter snort that Sam had learned to dread. "Well. Won't have to worry about him anymore."

And the faltering bits of anger trying to stay afloat gave way to ice. "What do you…what are you talking about?"

"Dean's dead."

It took a minute to realize that his ass was getting cold because he was sitting on the ground, flurries of snow starting to fall around him, and that the hard outline under his hand was the backpack that had slipped off his shoulder. It took another to notice that John was still talking.

"…got reckless after you left, and _you_ weren't there watching his six—"

"Where were you?" He didn't bother trying to get up. He wasn't sure his legs still worked. "Where the fuck were you when my brother was—"

"You selfish brat!" Sam couldn't help his flinch as his dad raised his voice for the first time that night. "He's taken care of you your whole life, and you couldn't spare the effort to—"

"Hey, don't talk to him that way!" Sam discovered that his legs worked just fine as he rose and spun at his roommate's voice, because Steve was stalking forward, Jess just behind him.

"Steve, man, stay out of this," he started but his roommate wasn't listening.

"I don't care if you're his dad, mister, but…"

When his dad finally moved, all he could think was _holy shit_ because John Winchester was fast but _nothing_ natural could move like that.

* * *

Steve was on the ground, holding his arm with blood staining the snow around him, and Sam found himself crouching in a fighting stance between his friends and his—the thing. Jess was swearing, and he wasn't sure whether it was because Steve was bleeding, because Sam's dad _(not his dad, dammit, what the fuck was going on)_ had done it, or because Sam knife was in his hand. 

"What are you?" Not-John turned to face Sam, and now his face was twisted into a malicious leer. Sam couldn't see a weapon.

_Inhuman strength_, he thought. _Possessed_.

"Is that any way to talk to your father, Sammy? Your friend was getting in the way of our heart to heart."

"Fuck you! You're not my father, you lying bastard!"

_Lies, lies_, ran a litany through his head. _It was a lie, Dean can't be dead_…

Shifting his grip, breathing hard and on the cusp between hyper-alert and dizzy with_(panic)_ adrenaline, he allowed himself a quick look backward. "Steve? Jess? You all right?" Whimpers but no answer. Sam swallowed hard and forced his words to come out steady, soothing, but authoritative.

Just like old times.

"Steve. I need you to stay calm, alright, tell me where you're bleeding. Can you do that, man?"

"How sweet," the thing in front of him murmured, standing and sounding exactly like John. It didn't look worried or even angry anymore, his eyes glinting in what seemed like amusement. Sam bit down a response and let out a shaky breath when Jess's horrified words reached his ears.

"He…he's winded, got a cut on his hand, but I don't think it's too bad. God, Sam, we've got to—"

Thinking fast, Sam bent and had a hand inside his backpack, by the time he heard the thing bark, "What are you doing?"

"I'm the one you want," he reasoned, fingers scrabbling as surreptitiously as possible. He had nothing to bargain with since he wasn't sure what the hell the thing was and was only guessing at what it wanted. "They're nothing. Just let me…let me patch him up and get them away from here and you can do whatever the hell you—"

In a blur it was right in front of him, a supernaturally strong hand wrapped around his neck. "Don't bullshit me, Sammy. I could gut you with your own blade before you could even blink. You think your own father doesn't know your tricks—"

Choking for breath, Sam wrenched his hand out of the bag and threw the open water bottle toward his father's face.

A hissing sound rose as John's form reared back in surprise. "Jess! Steve! Get back to the church and stay the hell back!" Sam shouted, and he dove toward the half-empty bottle, flinging the rest at the thing—the _demon_, it had to be a demon—to keep it at bay. "Exorcizo te," he chanted quickly, the words rolling with hated familiarity from his lips, "immundissime spiritus, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis…"

It _laughed_. Sam faltered, unnerved because it should be starting to feel it now, Jesus. "…et in nomine Iesu Christi Filii eius..."

"…Domini et Iudicis nostri," the demon continued itself, making Sam's mind go utterly blank with shock, "et in virtute Spiritus Sancti…" It trailed off, its mocking grin wider than ever as it bent over him, not an inch away from his face. "Shall I go on?"

In an instant Sam had his knife point resting at the thing's throat. "What the fuck are you," he said again, but it came out as a whisper. "Get out of my dad," he tried again, succeeding in a slightly stronger tone. Or louder, anyway.

"Gonna slit my throat, Sammy?" it whispered back to him.

"Give me a reason," Sam breathed back. "I mean it," he warned ineffectually as it effortlessly pulled his arm away.

"You really gonna kill this meatsuit? You know you want to. You've wanted to ever since that night you left. Since before then."

"You don't know a thing about me." It smirked as the knife trembled in Sam's hand. Useless. Not even cold iron or silver.

It shrugged. "Maybe. But I know everything your dad knows, and _he_ sure remembers how your face felt on his fist."

"Shut up. It wasn't like that," even though yeah, it pretty much was.

A second later, there was a pain against Sam's cheek and he was crashing into the ground, several feet back.

"Sorry," his dad's voice mocked. "Was it more like _that_? Should have paid more attention in training, Sammy."

Except he _had_ been paying attention, more than Dad had ever known. Before he could think, Sam was on his feet, ducking a second punch and retaliating with a kick that contacted but barely knocked the thing back. It smirked, eyes gleaming, and dove in again.

The moves were the same—he'd danced this dance with Dad more than with anyone else besides Dean—but it was all faster, harder, immovable. Even with his longer reach and Dad's greater bulk, he could barely land a hit, and every time he thought he'd stepped back far enough it was as if the other could _stretch_ another inch forward.

The knife was still in his hand, for all the good it didn't do since he didn't dare to slash at his father's skin. The urge to drop it and concentrate on dodging warred with a reluctance to relinquish the only weapon he had that might be of any use at all.

"Christo," he gasped in desperation, knowing it wouldn't work. The other's eyes moved up to meet his, and Sam staggered back, waiting for it to blink and open demon-black eyes.

But they weren't black. They were—pale, glowing, the pupils slits like a cat's. "Gesundheit," the thing spat back, and when it raised a hand it wasn't a hand anymore—the skin was split open, and under it was a_claw_.

Demon or not, there was no way his dad's hand could do that, unless it _wasn't_ his dad's hand.

A shifter. Not a demon. Shapeshifter.

Decision made, Sam flipped the knife in his hand and threw it.

The shifter moved, but too slow from surprise. The blade missed its heart but still cut a gash through its chest deep enough to kill. To kill a human, anyway, but hopefully this would buy him some time.

Somewhere behind him, Steve yelled. Sam hoped he'd have the sense not to go for a second round but was busy stumbling toward his backpack, plunging his hand in and finding the flap covering his other knife. A cut from a steel knife wouldn't keep a shapeshifter down for long.

For the first time in months, he wished he had a gun and silver bullets.

He'd just managed to grab onto the silver knife when he was bowled over again, this time slamming hard against a tree trunk with his own steel against his throat. A pile of ripped, hastily shed skin (ugh, that was just_gross_) lay on the ground, and the face scowling at him now was Dean's.

"Honor thy father," Dean's voice said. "You were never real good at that part, were you, little brother?"

"Yeah, like you're fooling anyone now," Sam scoffed as well as he could with the wind knocked out of him and metal sharp on his skin.

"Oh, I know you know what I am," the shapeshifter said, and Sam could only think _God, if that's not a demon possessing Dad, where is he? Where's Dean?_ "You were always the smart one, Sammy. Got into Stanford and all. Guess I really wasn't the brains of the family, or I'da known you were planning something. Kinda hard to figure out, though, seeing as you didn't tell me you were going before you left."

"You're not Dean," Sam choked out, but he couldn't deny that it _hurt_ hearing those words in Dean's voice, with Dean's inflection, coming from Dean's furious face.

"You think I didn't have dreams, too?" it went on. "I wanted it, too. College. A wife and kids. A _home_. But no way that was gonna happen. Had to look out for little Sammy, since he couldn't look out for himself."

"You're making this all up."

"Maybe not so smart after all. I know what Dean knew." Sam's expression must have betrayed his wary confusion, because its face split into a grin. "You don't know shit about my kind, do you? And…Dean didn't know, either." _Past tense,_ Sam registered, _it used the past tense_. "What else hasn't Dad told you, huh? I mean…told us?"

"Not interested," Sam managed, swinging his knife up, but before he could act he was pushed back and a sharp line of fire bit into his left arm.

Choking off a cry of pain, Sam clenched his jaw, reflexively clutching his arm above the elbow as Dean _(no, the shapeshifter)_ waggled its blade playfully. Drops of Sam's blood flew off and landed on the snow-blanketed ground. The silver blade was somewhere on the ground…covered in snow by now, probably. _Fuck_.

"See, that's your problem, Sammy. You never want to listen. Never give a shit about anything but yourself. Dad saw it, didn't he? You didn't leave because you were pissed at him. You left because everything he said to you that night was true. Because you know he was right about Mom. She exploded over your _cradle_, Sammy. Whose fault does it look like, huh?"

"Don't talk about her that way, goddammit," Sam gritted out, defensive not of a woman he didn't remember but rather of an ideal he'd heard about his whole life.

"Taking the Lord's name in vain, little brother? But you're not a religious man, are you, Sammy?" Sam didn't answer, and genuine surprise flitted through the thing's eyes. "You are. And I didn't even have a clue. It's a dirty little secret, huh?"

"Shut up." He was starting to sound like a broken record but couldn't stop himself.

"Oh, this is too good, Sammy. You know who else believed in God? You know _why_ Dad doesn't go to church anymore?" Dean's face bent close to Sam's. "Mom prayed every day. Used to tuck her little boys in at night and tell them the angels were watching over them."

Its chuckle was ugly, dirty, tainting Dean's voice. "Angels. She woulda been better off praying to demons. 'Cause where were the angels when a demon sliced her open to get you?"

"She died in a fire, you freak," he countered, relieved to be sure of something, finally.

But the shapeshifter threw its head back and _laughed_, like there was nothing funnier. "Oh, Sammy, you really don't know anything, do you? Dad never told you exactly how she died? _Why_ she died?"

_(…a demon sliced her open to get to you)_

"You're bluffing," Sam said. "You can't possibly know. Even Dad doesn't know it's a demon."

A snort. "I've got my connections," it said. "You hunters. Hunting what you don't understand. What makes you think we don't hunt back?"

"Connections? So you're some demon's bitch," Sam said. There was something about channeling Dean's attitude that warmed him enough to stave off his mind's numbness. Or maybe that was just his anger beginning to return.

A muscle twitched in Dean's jaw before the smile came back, this time harder and less amused. "If I wanted to kill you, you'd be bleeding out on the ground now. You don't understand what you're facing. He isn't just any demon, but if you're disappointed, Sammy, I can promise you there're a lot of others watching over you."

"Just what I've always wanted. Demons watching over me."

The shapeshifter shrugged Dean's shoulders. "Take what you can get, little brother. They're more dependable than angels. You'd know that if you bothered to pay attention to your dreams."

"_What?_"

"Oh, come on, the Winchester name didn't get famous by raising oblivious spawn. You must have noticed the visions?" It sneered. "We're not so different. I see people's thoughts by wearing their skin. You…you're not so natural yourself, are you? You see things in your dreams."

_Dreams…_

_(…watching himself pick up a knife from the ground and stab Dean…Just a dream…)_

Thinking frantically back to the image, he closed his eyes and threw himself to the side, where the knife had been in the dream. His hand closed on the silver blade, and he whirled around and threw.

His aim was off this time; he'd missed the heart by several inches, but the shock of silver was enough for Sam to stand and grab the shapeshifter and yank the knife out of his brother's body.

"You gonna kill me, Sammy?" Dean's voice whispered. "You hate me that much?"

A breath—not a sob—found its way out of Sam's chest, and he whispered back, "Don't call me Sammy." He took a step back and plunged the silver into the shapeshifter's heart.

He couldn't be sure, but he thought the creature's eyes flashed yellow before it fell.

* * *

Next Chapter: Aftermath and Dean's first appearance. 


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen. Briefly, Sam/Jess

Notes:

1. There's talk of religion throughout this story, as well as some blasphemous stuff. These are not necessarily my views, nor are they views I am trying to promote. I do think they fit for Sam, Dean, and others affected. Most faith discussion isn't not here so much as in later chapters, but I thought I should put it in before I forgot. I don't think any of it's truly offensive, but if it is, well, that wasn't my intention. Oh yeah, they take the Lord's name in vain a lot, but it's common enough that it seems to me more like a linguistic habit than a religious attitude.

2. What happens to shapeshifters after death, and to some extent the nature of shapeshifters, is a little embellished here. I don't think anything directly contradicts canon lore, though. Demons too, maybe, but not much—and honestly, canon's left the nature/abilities/etc. of demons pretty open so far.

* * *

_"As long as I'm around, nothing bad is gonna happen to you." _

_("Nightmare") _

* * *

Jess and Steve were freaked. Sam hadn't realized it, but they'd been pretty close the whole time, too far to be hurt but close enough to hear.

"Uh," Steve said first, sounding faint.

_Blood loss_, was Sam's first thought. Then he looked at Steve's hand, which was bleeding but not that much, and amended, _Shock_.

The next thought was,_Dean's dead_, followed quickly by, _It was lying_ and_Call them call them call them call them_.

His cell phone was in his left pocket, but for some reason his hand couldn't get it out. Then his eyes focused on the blood trickling down his arm and remembered it was supposed to hurt. He dug the phone out awkwardly with his right hand instead.

"Sam." He stopped trying to operate the phone in the dark with one shaky hand and looked up to meet Jessica's terrified eyes.

"Jess…I've gotta…gotta take care of something, I'll explain everything, I swear…" _God, Dean, don't be dead_…

"That wasn't your dad, right? Or your brother?" Her laugh was high and almost (but not quite, thankfully) hysterical. "Because he's dead, Sam, God, he ripped his own _skin_ off…"

"No. It was a shapeshifter."

"Oh. That's okay, then." Sam could tell it wasn't okay, not by a long shot, but she wasn't edging away from him—was, in fact, looking at him as trustingly as someone could when scared out of her mind—which would do for now.

_Civilians first_, he thought. Jesus, his brain was bossy. "You okay, Steve?"

Steve was pressing a cloth—part of a shirt or something, probably—into his hand and gaping. "I'll live."

_Happy?_ he asked his brain, and almost started giggling hysterically himself.

Dean didn't answer his phone. Neither did Dad.

That was pretty much par for the course these days, but he slammed the phone shut and dialed each again.

And again.

And again. "Dammit, Dean, if you're dead…" He jerked away as Jess's hand reached for him.

And again—

"_What?"_ came Dean's voice the fifth time he called, sounding sleepy but healthy. Alive. Sam actually dropped the phone in the snow and had to lean down, bracing himself with an elbow on the ground.

"Shit. Shit," he muttered when he'd caught his breath, picking it up again and getting a streak of his own blood on the screen in his haste.

By the time he got it up to his ear, Dean was saying, "_…know what, fuck you, Sam. If you wanted our attention you coulda picked up your damn phone anytime…"_

"Dean," he finally got out, and his must have sounded pretty messed up because Dean shut up right away.

"_Sam? Sammy, you okay?"_

"You're alive," Sam said stupidly. The silence on the other end went on so long he started panicking again. "Dean? You there?"

"_Yeah. What's the matter with you, Sammy? What is this?"_

"Nothing. It's fine." Sam had to stifle his laugh again, because it was not fine in so many ways he didn't even want to count them.

"_Right. Sure."_ Sam could hear the confusion in his brother's voice, but there was irritation there, too. They hadn't talked in over three months now; he must sound insane calling like this now. God, this was screwed up._ "Look, this isn't the best time, Sam. We're on a hunt in California, there's this shapeshifter in Atherton..."_

And shit, he had to laugh when he heard that, cutting Dean off. "I think it migrated." At least now he knew how the shapeshifter picked up those faces to use.

Another pause, then,_"You wanna run that one by me again?"_

"Never mind," Sam sighed, all amusement completely gone, leaving him empty and cold. Although the cold might have been from the snow. "It's taken care of."

"_It's what? Sam! What the hell's going on? You found it?"_

"You could say that."

"_Where did it go? You...you got away all right?"_ Dean's voice had the gruff quality that meant he was concerned.

"Um," he said and looked over his friends again, really looked at them for the first time. Jess had narrowed her eyes the way she always did when trying to figure something out. Steve was shivering but it looked like he wasn't even bleeding anymore. "Steve got scratched, but it doesn't look too bad."

"_Who the hell is Steve?"_

"He…uh, he's my roommate."

"_You're hunting with your college friends? Are you nuts?"_

Feeling oddly defensive, he retorted, "I wasn't hunting, Dean. It was waiting outside the church when we walked past. It found us."

_It found me. It was waiting for me. It'll find me again._

"_We're nearby. We'll be there in a couple of hours."_ Sam could hear movement behind Dean's voice and knew they were dressing, packing, ready as always to move at a moment's notice.

"I took care of it, Dean. It's dead." It wasn't a protest, though it was the best he can do while suppressing the desire to say _Please come, Dean_. He almost said not to bring Dad, but holy crap that would have gone down badly, so he decided against it. _It's just to make sure_, he reasoned. _See that they're not dead_.

And God, he had questions. Mom, demons, his _dreams_. As if there weren't enough elephants crowding the room already.

"Uh, actually, I called because I had a question about shapeshifters," which wasn't true, but now that he thought about it, he probably should have asked already. "Silver bullet to the heart, right?"

"_Right."_

"Doesn't have to be a bullet, does it? A silver knife works?"

There was muffled talking before Dean said, _"It should, yeah, I guess. Wait, wait, you stabbed it? You sure it's dead?"_

"Pretty sure. Wait…" Stifling a groan as he pushed himself to his feet, Sam took a few cautious steps toward the figure lying in the grass.

Dean's blank eyes stared back. Stomach churning, Sam nudged a bare arm with his toe—

Stumbling back, he bent over, trying not to gag. He'd forgotten how fast shapeshifters' skin started rotting after they died.

"Yeah, it's dead."

"_You gotta be sure, Sam—"_

He glanced at it again to see a piece of Dean's face slough off. "I'm sure." He almost reached out to retrieve his knife, then changed his mind. _Dad would be pissed_.

A beat passed, then Dean asked flatly, _"You're not hurt?"_

Sam closed his eyes. "I'm…I'm tired, Dean," and he realized it was completely true if not the whole truth. "I just wanna…Look, it's done, you don't...why are you coming?"

"_Are you kidding? Save it, Sam. Get inside. Your friend, too. We'll call when we get there."_

"Dean—"

"_Stay there, Sam,"_ and this time it was Dad's voice. Sam was annoyed at himself for standing up straighter but couldn't muster up the effort to care that much._ "We need to make sure it's finished. Keep them safe. We'll call."_

Your mission is to keep the civilians from harm. You have your orders, soldier.

"Dad?" When no one answered, he brought the phone down to look at the screen.

Call ended. _Surprise_.

The hunt wasn't over until everyone was safe. Taking a deep breath, he turned back. "Guys, we have to get inside."

"Inside? Where?" Steve said blankly.

"Our room," Sam decided. "Jess, you might want to stay with us for the night. At least until my brother and dad get here. They're…uh, they hunt stuff like that."

"What, they're coming here?" she asked, as if she didn't quite believe it. "The real them this time? Not a…a _shapeshifter_? Or is, you know, a magical troll or something gonna show up?"

"A wha…? Look, we really shouldn't stay out here. That thing is dead, and they don't usually move in packs, but--

_("…there're a lot of others watching over you…")_

--I don't want to take my chances. And if something else comes along I'd rather have access to a weapon that's actually useful."

"Yeah, because we've got weapons stashed in our room," Steve joked, his attempt at a laugh dying quickly as he saw Sam's look. "Seriously? Huh."

"I'll explain when we get there," he promised again, wincing internally at the thought, and pushed them back to the dorm room.

Once everyone was behind the salt line, with the door closed behind him, Sam opened the bottom drawer of his dresser and opened his duffel bag, keeping his eyes on the bag while he spoke.

"There are things out there, in the dark. Monsters, ghosts, whatever you have nightmares about—chances are, they're real. My dad and my brother…and I…we hunt them. That thing out there tonight was a shapeshifter…"

* * *

The first thing Jess said when he'd finished was, "You should have that looked at." 

Sam didn't dare to meet her eyes, but he followed her finger to the wound on his arm. Sighing and rubbing his eyes, he pulled his first aid kit from the bag. He couldn't stitch it himself, but he was going to be out cold in a while if he didn't get it to stop bleeding.

"I'm not sure a wad of gauze is going to cut it," Jess said as he was tying it off awkwardly with an arm and teeth, grimacing.

"It'll be fine for a couple of hours." Anything more, Dean could take care of. But remembering the shapeshifter's words, still not sure how much was true, Sam wondered for the first time in his life whether Dean would even want to take care of it.

He'd heard Dad give the _what's-really-out-there_ speech before, but he'd never had to give it himself. And never to people he knew. People who would look at him like…

"I'm serious, Sam," Jess was saying, and Sam finally turned to stare incredulously at her.

"That's it?" he asked. "You—both of you—almost got killed by a shapeshifter tonight, and I'm telling you I spent my childhood hunting ghosts, and you're worried about my _arm_?"

Steve put in, "It's bleeding all over your clothes, and I think you almost got killed more than we did," which did nothing in the way of explaining, so Sam gaped at him instead.

"You're okay with this?" Because no one in his or her right mind would be okay with this.

"No, Sam!" Jess said, standing now. At almost six feet, she loomed over his crouching form. "No, I'm not okay with this," which was good, since it meant she wasn't crazy, "but what do you want me to do?"

"Freak out?" he joked weakly.

She huffed. "Yeah, that'd help. I'll freak out on my own time, thanks. And you should sit down before you fall over." She had her arms wrapped around herself, though, eyes darting frequently to the window and door. Sam raised his eyebrows and glanced at Steve.

"I'm not gonna deny something I saw with my own eyes," he shrugged, though Sam noticed he was still shivering. "Speaking of," he said, holding out his bloody hand, "you got a Band-Aid I can use?"

How had he forgotten about that? With a curse at his own stupidity, Sam dressed the wound; he was lucky it really wasn't bad at all.

"I think you've cussed more in the last couple of hours than you have the whole semester," Jess observed, looking amused. "It's like I don't even know you."

Sam was almost sure that was a joke, but there was an edge to it. All things considered, he left it alone. "Can either of you handle a knife of any kind?"

"Come on," Steve said disbelievingly, "I thought you left yours out there." And as Sam pulled a hunting knife from the bag, "You don't actually have…huh."

"I thought you said we'd be safe here," Jess said, her mouth opening a little in surprise when he pulled another out from under the mattress.

"Dude," Steve said, looking a little uncomfortable now. "Have you been sleeping with that thing?"

Ignoring him (because there really wasn't any good way to answer that), Sam said, "I said I'd be more comfortable having access to the stuff here. We're protected by salt and protective wards in here, but I just want to be careful. I still don't know exactly what the shapeshifter wanted."

Or if there were more.

"Salt?" Jess asked. "Like, sodium chloride, throw salt over your shoulder, salt?"

Rubbing his eyes again and dropping into a chair, Sam sighed. "Salt is used for purification…"

* * *

"If holy water repels demons, and that was a shapeshifter outside, how come water burned it?" 

Sam was wondering that, too, or would have been if he wasn't focusing so hard on alternately keeping his eyes open and clamping down jitteriness. "I don't know. Maybe it was just surprised." Except he didn't believe that; there had been hissing and steam when the water hit, which threw that theory out of the window.

What the hell had happened to black and white? Holy water hurt demons. Silver hurt shapeshifters. There should be some rule against weaknesses—and abilities—crossing over. Sam hadn't even realized shapeshifters absorbed memories, too, which it must have done because how else could it have known all that?

"Corporeal creatures have physical limitations," he told them. "For shifters, silver poisons them, but it has to get into the bloodstream from the heart. They don't like touching it, either; it's like they have a severe allergic reaction to the metal."

"Geek," Steve said half-heartedly. "You sound like a biology prof. Or a...paranormal biology prof. Huh. I should have guessed about all this."

"That would have make you nuts," Sam replied. He was a little disturbed at how curious they were about this stuff. Maybe it was just because everything was new and like a fantasy story to them, but it was better than having them run screaming out of the room, in any case.

"Well, the Latin you spout when you're asleep—" and that had taken on a new level of freakiness after the shapeshifter's warning about dreams "—and how much you know about myths and shit. And your family…this is why you don't like to talk about them? 'Cause people would think you were crazy?"

When he thought about it, that wasn't even the actual reason—or not all of it—and wasn't that a kick in the head? "I meant it when I said we'd had some issues."

"Well, you've got like an hour and a half to work them out before they get here," Steve said wryly, but Sam didn't find it funny at all. "Was it true, what it said about your dad?"

There wasn't really a jolt so much as a really heavy rock settling into his stomach, a counter to the throbbing in his arm. Being relieved to learn they were alive, yearning to see them again, wasn't the same as wanting to confront what happened.

It wasn't even just the fight with Dad—that had been coming for years. But Winchesters didn't have touchy-feely heart-to-hearts. The only emotions not taboo were resentment and anger, and when they came out, it could (and did) get ugly.

If only Dad weren't coming…

Yeah, right, like that would make it better. Dean had to be pissed as hell, too, if only because for Dean, pissed took the place of hurt. And scared and worried. Either way, he'd be pissed.

"So," Jessica said into the awkward pause. "The Latin stuff. You learned it for…hunting?"

"Yeah," Sam said, gladly ignoring Steve's comment.

"And you use it to bless your bullets and whatnot."

He'd forgotten how weird it sounded. "Pretty much."

"But that's a Christian rite. So, what are you saying—there really is a God and a Devil and you're, like, God's soldiers fighting evil?"

_God's soldiers. Hah_. He snorted. "No, it's not like that. And…there are exorcisms and rituals from other religions, too. A few secular ones. Some things…there are certain symbols that demons fear, certain words. Sometimes a priest picked up on that and started using them, and then the ritual got associated with the church in some form or another. Some people know how to...tweak them for different purposes, or do the same thing with different words, but no one really understands exactly what all the governing rules are. I definitely don't. If it works, I'm not changing it."

"I thought you had to be ordained or something to do stuff like that."

"It's not a matter of religion," Sam explained, trying to put Pastor Jim's lessons into his own words. "It's…conviction. I don't know if there's actually a God, but you have to believe it for anything to work."

"Whoa, what?" Steve cut in. "You've got to believe in God but you don't know if He exists? How's that work?"

Sam hadn't even noticed the slip.

"I didn't mean…I_do_ believe in a higher power," he amended. "I was just saying…I meant, there's no actual proof, you know. But I do…I have faith." _Convincing_, he thought. He shifted, wincing as he moved his arm.

_("…where were the angels when a demon sliced her open to get you?")_

"But your family doesn't," Jess said with a frown. "You said so. And the…the uh, the shapeshifter said so, too."

Pastor Jim had explained that, too. Otherwise, Sam was sure he'd have tried to make all the Winchesters read their Bibles. Not that they even owned any Bibles besides the one Sam got from Jim.

"You have to have a purpose. Have to believe in something. A lot of hunters don't believe in any deity. Dad dedicates himself to the hunt so much that it's enough." _ Dedicated. Obsessed. _"Dean…believes in Dad."

She was giving him the look again, the one that reminded him about psych majors. He felt the headache threatening to come back. "And you don't?" She didn't specify whether she meant Dad or the hunt.

He didn't either. "It's why I left," he told her. "I wanted out of that life. Just wanted to be…normal for once."

And there was the pity look. For some reason it was worse when Jess wore it.

"I left that life," Sam repeated, unable to meet her eyes.

She looked at his sawed-off lying in the drawer. "Okay," she said, but it wasn't in agreement.

Clenching his jaw, he went back into the duffel bag and found the three silver bullets he'd brought with him and put one on the floor just inside the doorway. He absently wiped a line of blood off his arm where it was seeping from under his bandage.

"Sam…" Jess began, looking at the arm again.

"Is that a silver bullet?" Steve asked, and he looked for all the world like a twelve-year-old. "That's awesome. You should hunt werewolves."

"They're trickier because you have to wait for full moon," Sam answered.

"Dude, there are werewolves?"

* * *

Steve and Jess were both asleep, one in each bed, by the time Sam's phone rang. The ringing didn't wake them, but his voice did when he answered. 

"_Which one's your room?"_ Dean asked without prelude.

Sam didn't ask how they knew which building it was. "Second floor," he said. "Second door on the left."

"_I'm coming up."_

Steve rolled onto his side and blinked at him. "He doesn't have the building key," he pointed out.

Sam felt the corners of his mouth twitch. "I don't think that'll be a problem."

Dean's footsteps were quiet, but Sam was listening for them and heard them anyway. He turned the lock and stepped back, flipping the safety on a handgun and checking for the knife on the table beside him.

"Sam?" Jess asked, frowning, and he hoped she wasn't planning that freak-out now. "What are you doing? I thought you said it was your brother."

"Precaution," he said shortly. "Stay back." Exchanging a look, Jess and Steve stood and took places behind Sam.

"You okay?" she whispered, and he felt a little burst of pride at how she was handling all this. She would have made a good hunter.

He squashed that thought brutally. Not every good hunter stayed a living one for long.

"I'm fine," he replied tersely. The adrenaline was back; he'd last a while yet.

The footsteps stopped, and there were three sharp knocks. _"Sam?"_ said the voice on the other side, and Sam had to lean back against the wall to stop his legs from giving out. _"You in there?"_

"The door's unlocked," he called back, and the door opened.

"Why the fuck is it unlocked?" Dean grumbled, then raised his eyebrows when he found himself looking into the barrel of a gun. "Whoa. Well, it's good to see you too, bitch."

The words were so _Dean_ that Sam actually lowered the gun a few inches. "Dean?"

"You see a face this pretty anywhere else?"

_Yeah, actually_, Sam thought. _That's the whole problem_. "Where's Dad?" he asked instead, suspicious again. Dean was alone. Shapeshifters could only turn into one person at a time.

Coldness washed over him as he realized he might have just given a shifter directions to his room.

Dean stared at him. "You spent half your life fighting with the man and now you—"

"Answer the question!" He raised the gun again.

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said, his voice now wary, harder. "Take it easy. You said the shifter found you outside of the church. Dad just went to take care of the body."

Sam fought the urge to slap a hand to his forehead (which he didn't do because Dean would never let it go if he pistol-whipped himself). He should have thought of the body, and it did sound like something his dad would do. Instead, he licked his lips and tried to think of something else to say.

"What's wrong with you?" Dean asked, sounding suspicious himself and more than a little annoyed, then said, "_Christo_."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "I'm not possessed, Dean."

"Yeah? Well, neither'm I. Look, man, I know it's been a long night, but…" He quirked a grin. "Want a password? I could tell them the story about that chick who stalked you through half of your junior year—"

"Pick up the bullet, Dean," Sam interrupted, too tired even to be embarrassed. Wanting this to be over with so he could let himself collapse and let Dean take care of the rest.

"The what?" Sam flicked his eyes toward his brother's feet, which was all the cue Dean needed to look down and see slug sitting on the floor. "What the hell?" Keeping his eyes on Sam, Dean lowered himself slowly into a crouch and picked it up. "What—is this a silver bullet, Sam?"

Sam saw the moment understanding dawned. "You think I'm a shapeshifter." The annoyance had left his face.

Sam looked at the fist holding the bullet, shifting on his feet. "Have to make sure," he said, feeling like it was the fucking theme of the night. "Show me your hand."

Dean stepped into the room and started moving toward them. Sam felt Jessica press against him and shiver, and an image of Dean's face leering above him flashed before his eyes. "Stay there!" he barked.

Dean froze immediately. He dropped the bullet and raised the open hand so that Sam could see it. "See? No burns, no blisters, not even a rash. It's really me, Sammy."

Sam closed his eyes and dropped the hand holding the gun, thumb flicking the safety back into place. "God, Dean…" he said, then stopped because he couldn't think of anything else.

Dean took another few steps forward but kept his distance, looking uncomfortable. "So. Long time no see."

Sam's vision chose that moment to blur, and even though Steve and Jess were already there, Dean still reached him first and caught him when he swayed, easing him down to sit against the wall. "Whoa, there," he said. "Hey. What's wrong?"

"Hay is for horses," he muttered (wow, that was weak), raising his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and shaking his head to clear his vision.

He found his wrist caught fast, though, and squinted up to see Dean staring at the bandage. "Sam? What's this? You said over the phone you weren't hurt." Dean's voice was pissed again, so Sam knew he was worried.

"No I didn't," he returned, although that conversation had been so foggy with relief (okay, maybe a little shock) that he might have actually said that. "I couldn't stitch it myself—"

"Dammit, Sam! You idiot—we taught you better than to hide stuff like this."

"Says the pot to the kettle," Sam retorted, his head clearing enough to give an answer.

His brother gently pulled off the makeshift bandage, which was saturated with blood, and squinted at the wound. "Yeah, well, I'm not the one trying to dye the carpet red."

"Not this time," Sam said quietly, making Dean look up at him sharply.

"You wanna say something?"

"Never mind." Dean looked ready to argue, but stood instead and had opened the bottom drawer of Steve's dresser before Steve spoke up for the first time.

"Uh, Sam's is that one." Dean looked at him as if he hadn't seen him there before, even though Sam knew Dean must have seen every pertinent detail of the room as soon as the door had opened.

"Huh."

Sam didn't miss the meaningful glance Dean gave the other dresser, taking in the bed that went along with it and the fact that it was closer to the door. He raised his eyebrows at Sam, who shrugged, letting his eyes cut over to Steve. Dean dropped his gaze and nodded once in acknowledgement. Sam took the inside bed by default when it was just the two of them, but rules were different with a civilian.

Rules were different when they were apart.

"How'd you know where his kit was?" Steve asked when Dean returned carrying it.

"Because I'm an awesome brother," came the flippant response. They always kept it in the bottom drawer—it would be pretty inconvenient for only one person to know where it was, in case he was the one who needed it. He frowned, then cupped Sam's chin, pulling it to one side. Sam turned his head obligingly until Dean was satisfied that the bruise on his face wasn't serious.

"You want something for the pain before I start?" Dean asked, quieter now, more serious. They always asked before patching each other up, because neither would ask for it otherwise, even though neither ever said yes.

And there was another reason today. "Dad's coming," Sam said in response.

Dean paused, then went on threading a needle. "Yeah, okay, you probably don't want to be high when you talk to him."

Even that dread, however, wasn't enough to distract him from his brother sewing up his arm.

After the first stitch, Dean peered into his face, cleared his throat, and said, "So it was a shapeshifter? How'd you know?"

Steve spoke up before Sam could say anything. "I think it had something to do with it ripping of its face."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that'll do it. Uh, these your friends, Sammy?"

It wasn't until then that Sam realized how this whole scene must look to his fellow students. "Uh, yeah. Guys, my brother Dean." Like they hadn't figured it out already. "Dean, Steven Grussing and…_ngh_…Jessica Moore."

Dean's eyes barely flicked up to them. "This is from a knife," he said, a statement rather than a question. Sam didn't answer. "You can't do shit like this, Sammy, you're no good to anyone if you keel over."

"Sorry," he said between clenched teeth.

"Whatever," Dean said, but Sam reached over and wrapped his good hand around his brother's wrist to stop him.

"No, Dean, listen. I'm _sorry_."

Dean's jaw worked before he firmly pulled Sam's hand away. "I'm not gonna have a chick-flick moment with you right now. Your logic ain't logical even when you're not half-asleep." He caught Sam's gaze and tilted his head almost imperceptibly toward the other two in the room.

Sam sighed but agreed, "Okay." The words were familiar, but the distance gaping between them was not, and he didn't stop staring at Dean.

"Dude, stop staring at me."

"Fine." Then, tentatively, "Jerk."

Not even a beat passed before Dean threw back, "Bitch."

Laughing breathily with relief, Sam finally leaned his head back and closed his eyes, gritting his teeth against the pain.

Dean had given up trying to make him talk, which was good, because Sam was too tired to try to follow. There was murmuring beyond his closed eyes, though, which he listened to with half an ear.

"Anything else wrong with him?"

"He got thrown around a little, but I think it's just a lot of bruises. He'll be okay?"

"Just lost a little much blood, probably. He'll sleep it off."

Sleeping made Sam think of dreaming, and he pried his eyes open. "Dean?" His arm was throbbing and his jaw aching from tension, but there was a clean, neater dressing on his forearm.

The conversation stopped, and Sam felt an arm supporting him to his feet. "Come on, Sasquatch. Bedtime."

"Dean, shapeshifters…do they get your thoughts, too? When they change. They know everything you knew?"

"Yeah, Sam, apparently. But it's complica—"

"Okay."

Dean sighed. "You're not gonna listen to me right now, are you?" Part of Sam wanted to flinch at the words, so much like what the shapeshifter had said, while another part basked in the warm exasperation in the tone. Mostly he just blinked. "Go to sleep. We'll talk about this when you wake up."

Sam sat down on the edge of his bed. "We'll talk?"

"Yes, you girl, I'll let you get all emo on me. When you wake up."

"I should wait for Dad."

"I'll handle Dad. Seriously, Sam, I got this one. Get some sleep." A calloused hand brushed his hair, wet from sweat and melted snow.

Sam thought he should be a little bothered that he felt more normal now than he had in months, but lying in bed with the familiar sounds of Dean moving around the room, he felt too safe to care.

* * *

_From the next chapter: _

"_Dean, did Mom pray?"_


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Finding Home (Chapter 4)

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen. Briefly, Sam/Jess

Notes: I'm a little nervous about Dean's voice...I'll be grateful for any constructive criticism here.

XXXXX

_"What's next, you're going to start praying every day?" _

_("Houses of the Holy") _

XXXXX

Dad called to say he was staying in a motel a couple of miles from campus. Dean was relieved that this explosion waiting to happen could be put off for another few hours—a fight between Dad and sleepy, dizzy Sam might be just as bad as one with Sam on happy pills.

All four under-thirties crammed into Sam and Steve's dorm, Jessica curled up in what must be Steve's couch. They were all so shaken—even Sam, which was how Dean knew there was more to that shapeshifter hunt than he'd said—that Dean hadn't even tried to crack a joke about the hot blond chick sleeping with three guys.

The first time Sam woke was only an hour after he'd fallen asleep. Dean had been waiting for it, almost, and he stood immediately from the chair at Sam's desk. He definitely hadn't missed the nightmares.

No matter how much Sam had whined about hunting in the past few years, acting like he was only annoyed because he'd missed some biology test (which, come on, was a _good_ thing), the nightmares always came the night after a hunt.

Remembering that, Dean could almost understand why Sam had left. It still didn't excuse_how_ he'd left.

By the time his all-too-familiar litany of _It's okay, Sammy_ got his groggy brother asleep again, Steve and Jessica were both awake and staring at him. He pasted on a smirk, raising a cocky eyebrow at them instead of saying the defensive _What are you lookin' at?_ on the tip of his tongue. Steve sat up on his bed, catching his eye and jerking his head toward the door.

Exhaling, he looked at Sam one more time to make sure he was asleep, then pushed the door open, looking down the hallway in both directions first out of habit. There was a lounge at the end of the hallway, and Dean headed there but Steve shut the door behind him and said, "Jess's roommate's away for the weekend. She said we can go to her room; it'll be quieter."

There had to be some joke he could crack about going into the girl's room for a private talk, but it wouldn't be any fun without Sam awake to appreciate it. Or not appreciate it, probably, but whatever. As it was, he simply followed Steve in, thinking how stupid it was to leave the door unlocked and wrinkling his nose at the girliness that was a stark contrast to Steve's posters of the Chargers and the LA Galaxy and Sam's…well, blankness. His brother was such a neat freak.

And there was a copy of_Highway to Hell_ sitting on Jessica's desk, which was just wrong surrounded by pink and glittery things. Okay, not that they were actually pink and glittery, but it was pretty girly.

"Sam's okay?" Steve asked first, and his approval rating went up a notch in Dean's mind.

"Yeah, just a dream. He's always had some pretty freaky nightmares."

"No, yeah, I recognize it by now," and Dean remembered that Sam lived with this other guy now. "It's just that I haven't seen him sleep that deeply in a while, so..."

"Uh, he just woke up, kid. That's not very deep."

"Well, you got him to fall asleep. Usually he just lies in bed most of the night."

Damn. Dean swore sometimes Sam did crap like this just to force him into a sentimental scene.

"You been watchin' him sleep? Something you wanna tell me? Because I've got Samantha's honor to protect."

He got the feeling he wasn't doing a good job of getting Sam's friends to like him, going by the distrust on Steve's face as he snapped, "We've been worried about him! All we know is that he had some kind of fight with your dad that he refuses to talk about—"

"You don't know a thing about our family," Dean said, warning this time, partly because he didn't know himself what had happened that night. Sometimes Sam was so much like Dad Dean wanted to kill them both. Or lock them both in a room with bowie knives, which would do the same thing.

"I just know he's been sleeping even worse than he used to. You're in his nightmares, you know," Steve shot.

That _was_ surprising, and Dean couldn't deny a twinge of...actually, yeah, he was totally denying it. "What?" he asked.

The other shifted. "Look, man, I'm not trying to imply anything," which was something people only said when they were trying to imply something. "Sam doesn't talk much about family stuff, but he's never said a word against you, so I'm just asking, as his friend, talk to him before you jet. Something's been bothering him, and he won't talk to us."

_Something's always bothering Sam_, Dean wanted to say. But he could see it, too, something dull in his little brother's eyes, so he only said, "Winchesters don't do the sharing and caring gig."

Steve's irritation was back. "Yeah, how's that been working for you?"

"Go shove your relationship advice up your ass. I think we're done here." He stood, not particularly caring if the guy was following him.

"Jesus, are you all so touchy?"

"We are when some snot who don't know what he's talking about goes all Dr. Phil on us!"

"Well, pardon me for caring about my roommate!"

"Oh, you're his roommate? Because I was fooled by your impression of a teenage girl with a crush." Steve actually blushed at this, and Dean backpedaled. "Whoa, seriously?"

"No," Steve muttered. "He and Jess are together, anyway. Or as good as."

He really hadn't needed to know about this. He wondered if Sam had a clue, then decided he probably didn't, because Sam could be surprisingly oblivious for someone with full on OCD about everything else.

Wait, wait…

Jess? As in the hot blond he'd left sleeping with Sam? (_Hah…sleeping with Sam_) "Dude, her? That girl is completely out of my brother's league." _That's my boy_.

Steve huffed a laugh. "He was tutoring her in Latin."

"He would," Dean said, honestly amused. "Geek."

"Yeah, that's what I tell him. There're some smart people here, but Sam's, like, genius-smart sometimes," Steve said. Dean was torn between being annoyed at the guy and starting to like him. He decided on the latter—seriously, it was _funny_ to be called a geek by kids nerdy enough to go to Stanford. "I mean, who the hell dreams in Latin?" Steve continued.

Well, hello, left field. "Sam's...really?" he said skeptically.

"Yeah, it's hard to miss. Kinda creepy. He's never done that?" Dean gaped a little and shook his head. "You know, I didn't recognize it before, but it actually sounded kind of like that thing, the exorcism he was doing outside tonight."

"Whoa, time out. He exorcised someone? I thought this thing last night was a shapeshifter." It better have been, because Dad had definitely found a body out there when he'd called earlier.

"Well, he thought it was possessed at first, but it turned out to be…you know, not," Steve said. His voice was odd all of a sudden. Dean couldn't figure out why until followed his gaze to the gun he'd pulled out (it was a habit, okay? Demons were nasty). He considered keeping it out, just for kicks, but put it away. See? He could be nice.

Not that nice helped much here. "So let me get this straight. Sammy's dreaming...about exorcising a demon?"

"He doesn't ever remember it, but I know what I'm hearing. Like I said, creeped me out the first few times. I thought he was a psycho or something."

_Yeah, I hear Latin's real popular with the psychos these days_, he thought. _Sam, what's going on in that freaky head of yours?_

Steve rubbed his hand, and Dean vaguely remembered Sam babbling something about him getting cut. "You okay?" he asked grudgingly, trying to keep in mind that this was a kid who'd met the supernatural for the first time just a few hours ago.

"Yeah, Sam cleaned it up from me. I won't get rabies from shapeshifter claws, will I?"

"Well, unless they were rabid claws and they _bit_ you and slobbered on you…"

"I'll take that as a no."

XXXXX

How the fuck had Sam gotten out the door without waking him? If his little brother had to be bigger than Dean was, couldn't he at least have the courtesy to be clumsy or something?

"Goddammit, Sammy," he muttered, looking out the window at the lightening sky, then glancing at his watch. Who the hell got up before five-thirty on a Sunday morning? Okay, so Dean had always slept like the dead compared to Sam, but seriously, sleeping on a hard, armless dorm room chair was uncomfortable enough that he should have woken pretty easily.

Problem was, he was still so used to the sound of Sam wandering around in the middle of the night that it didn't even register.

He hit the speed-dial on his phone and jumped a second later when Sam's phone buzzed angrily on the desk. Dean snapped his phone shut with a curse.

"What's wrong?" Jessica was stirring on the couch, stretching so that her shirt rode up to expose a strip of skin. Goddammit, and she was taken, too. Dean sighed.

"Do you know where Sam might be?"

There was something wrong about people he'd never met before knowing more about Sam than Dean did.

She blinked sleepily at him for a couple of seconds, then said, "Oh, it's Sunday. He's probably at church."

Dean scoffed. "Kinda early for Mass, isn't it?" He wasn't sure what time Mass usually was, but it wasn't at five freakin' thirty. "Besides, Sam doesn't go to church."

"Uh, yeah he does. And he always goes really early."

What the hell? He hadn't seen Sam for three months and suddenly it was like he was a completely different person. "Since when?"

She was wrinkling her brow, looking at him strangely. Warily—like she wasn't sure what to think of him. "Since years ago, I assumed. He said he—you guys, I mean—used to stay with this pastor sometimes."

"Pastor Jim? Yeah, because he was a hunter. We learned target practice from him, not praying."

Jessica sat up fully, her eyes challenging. Her shirt flopped back into place. _Damn_. "Well, maybe your brother learned something else there, too."

He stared at her, then shrugged. "Fine. I'll look there." He paused at the door. "I left my cell number on the window sill behind you. Call if anything happens."

She looked surprised at that but said, "Okay," then lay back down again, already falling back asleep.

_Because normal people aren't running around at five in the freakin' morning, Sam_.

Dean had pointed out Memorial Church to his dad on the map the night before, and it wasn't hard to find now. He pushed open the doors and trained his eyes on the pews, which, really, were just fire hazards waiting to happen with the long rows of people packed in together. Now, though, Sam's hunched figure was the only one there.

"Jesus fucking Christ, Sam!" he called as he stepped into the church, mostly to make Sam roll his eyes and say, _Could you be a little less politically correct, Dean?_

His brother didn't move. Dean walked cautiously toward him. "Sam?" he tried again, lowering his voice, but was greeted again by silence.

Or, not silence. Sam was whispering something, and Dean cocked his head to listen.

"…_peccavi nimis cogitatione, verbo opere et omissione..."_

Dean hadn't enjoyed Latin lessons like Sam had, but he'd learned them all the same. Sam didn't normally speak the language when they weren't hunting, though, unless he was really surprised or upset for some reason. The next part, though, he understood.

"… _mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa..."_

"Sam!" he said again, now recognizing the confession. "What's going on with you?" Hurrying toward his brother, he knelt to see Sam's face, his eyes widening in surprise. "What the hell happened?"

The confession died on Sam's lips, and he raised his eyes, red and wet in a pale, bruised face. "I can't perform exorcisms anymore." The dullness Dean had glimpsed last night was in Sam's voice now. Dean raised a hand to Sam's forehead. There was no fever, but Sam didn't try to pull away either, which was maybe worse. A plastic bottle lay on its side on the floor.

"O…kay, random. I'm not seeing where…"

"I can't bless water, Dean! I tried this morning and it didn't work." Dean shifted awkwardly. Sam didn't cry—he whined, complained, bitched, sulked, but Dean couldn't remember the last time he'd cried. He didn't want to watch it happen now.

"Sam. Sammy, you gotta calm down, okay. First, how do you know it didn't work?"

"Wh…I tested it. I always do before I use holy water."

_Uh…_ "Tested it…on what?"

Sam opened his eyes. "I touched it, that's all. It felt like normal water."

Dean wanted to laugh in relief. "Well, good, 'cause that's what it's supposed to feel like."

"What?" He looked genuinely puzzled, and Dean raised in eyebrow to hide a prickle of concern and confusion of his own.

"It only works on demons, genius. I'm sure it's fine."

"But…I can always tell," Sam persisted, frowning now. "You don't…I mean, you don't feel the difference? It tingles when it's been exorcised properly."

"Tingles." Dean wanted to tell him he was just tired and dreaming this up, but Sam's eyes had cleared and looked more worried than confused.

"Yeah. Like...if it kept building up it would be painful, except it…You've seriously never noticed?"

Now Dean was kind of worried, too, because he knew for certain that holy water was indistinguishable from tap water except by demonic forces. "I'm serious, Sam. If people could tell the difference, you don't think they'd notice it every time they walked into a church?"

Sam's face was starting to show some panic now. "I don't know! I thought maybe most people didn't notice…you _know_ how people try to explain away supernatural stuff. I figured…well, then how do hunters make sure it's blessed water?"

"You just…I mean…no one _tests_ it on anything." Dean studied his brother's face, exhaustion and frustration making the bruise on his cheekbone stand out. "We're goin' around in circles. We'll ask Dad in the morning."

"It is morning."

"Yeah, no, it's not morning 'til the sun's up. Come on, broody, let's get back before your friends miss our faces. Or mine, anyway; they're probably tired of yours—"

"Dean, did Mom pray?"

Holy crap. It was really too early for this.

Sam almost never mentioned their mom or asked about her. Dean cleared his throat. "Yeah, I think so. Why do you ask?" he said in answer, trying for casual and succeeding. Mostly.

"And she would say…when she put us to bed…that

_("…the angels will watch over you, baby.")_

angels were watching over us?"

"There's no such thing as angels," Dean answered stiffly. Sam took it as the confirmation it was. "That's another thing—why are you going to church all of a sudden, again?"

Sam glanced at him before looking away again, his movements seeming almost nervous. "I used to stay with Pastor Jim while you were hunting with Dad."

"Yeah, I was there, too...Wait, he made you learn prayers and…whatever Jesus-people do?" It didn't sound like the Jim Murphy he remembered.

Sam shook his head. "He didn't make me. But every time, I kept thinking something would go wrong and you'd never come back. Or Dad."

Dean sighed, recognizing this mood. "Sam—"

"Pastor Jim found me once, and I was kind of…well, he didn't know what to do with me, so he taught me how to pray for…how to pray. And I've kept it up ever since." Sam snorted, though the effect was ruined by the hitching breath that followed it. "Said that angels would watch over you and bring you back safe. If I believed in them, they'd listen, and…" He bit his lip. "Now, I'm not sure I'm liking their track record so much."

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face. Trust Sam to have a crisis of faith just when Dean found out he had a faith at all.

"I've tried to believe, Dean, I really have. All term it's been getting…And now I can't perform the simplest rite."

"And you think it's because you…you're starting to have doubts about…God?" Dean hated having to choose his words carefully, but Sam could read a thousand insinuations in a simple statement, which was the last thing they needed now. He wished someone else were here now; as far as Dean was concerned, God and his angels could go fuck themselves for all the good they did, but there was no way he could say that to Sam right now.

"That's how Pastor Jim taught me to perform exorcisms. You can't just call on God's power and not mean it. It doesn't work." Dean really wished Sam would look up—his eyes were always easy to read, but his stupid hair covered his expressions when he was looking down like that.

"It works for me. The point is to send the demon to Hell, Sam," he pointed out. "Dad showed us, remember? You just need enough intent."

Sam huffed. "Dad never taught me the rites. That was Pastor Jim."

Dean blinked, realizing he didn't actually remember Sam learning that. They'd been hunting a demon once, and Sam had just known the exorcism by then. "He…That's not the point. Maybe you just have to…you know, shift your focus a little."

"To the hunt." Sam's tone was flat, so empty of emotion that Dean knew how much it must be hiding.

"Would that really be so bad?" Dean asked, his own tone sharper than he'd wanted. He'd take the hunt over God any day.

Sam was silent for a while. "I don't even know what we're hunting _for_."

"Dad's spent years looking for—"

"—for the demon that killed Mom, yeah, I know. Dean, if it weren't for pictures, I wouldn't even know what she looked like."

The pang that always accompanied thoughts of his mom was sharper this time, because sometimes Dean wasn't so sure if he'd remember he face, either, without photos. "She was killed over your goddamn crib, Sam. That doesn't mean anything to you?"

He regretted it immediately at the hurt that flitted over Sam's face and left it looking defeated. "That's what you think, too?" Dean wasn't sure what that was supposed to mean, but no way was it anything good. "All I mean is, I don't remember her at all. There's nothing that makes her different from anyone else who got in the way of a demon."

Dean seized on the opening. "If it were anyone else, we'd try to save her, too. Come on, Sam. This isn't just about Mom, you know that. And you were always whinin' about wanting to hunt with us when you were little."

Sam's head snapped up at that. "That wasn't about hunting, Dean! That was about always having to stay with one of Dad's friends and not knowing whether you two were getting killed!"

"We've saved a lot of people."

"Yeah? At what cost? Someday it'll be you or Dad lying in the woods with your throat slit. You ever notice how hunters never have a problem with old age?"

"Bobby's pretty old."

"Bobby's not that's old, and even he almost never does field work anymore. And one person isn't a great statistic."

"Well, what are we supposed to do? If you heard about a haunting somewhere, would you just leave it, knowing what you do about what's out there?" Sam's eyes slid away. Dean's own opened wider.

No way. "You did. Sam! You ignored some evil sonuvabitch because you wanted to be_normal_? Is that it?"

"What? No! I can't believe you think I'd…I salted and burned her corpse, Dean!"

Dean held his brother's gaze, though he felt a little bad for thinking it. Not that bad, though, because what was he supposed to think when Sam said it like that, looking like he felt guilty about something? "Well, then, you know how important it is."

"God. I bet you can't even remember how many times you or Dad came back bleeding half to death. This job isn't worth your _life_."

"It's a dangerous job, Sam, we all know that. How many people get to save _hundreds_ of lives before they die? You don't think that's worth my life?"

"_No, I don't!_" Sam's head dropped back into his hands. "Fuck. Don't you get it? I never hunted because I liked it. I hunted because it was the only way for me to know you were still alive."

"Then why'd you stop?"

Sam's laugh was short and cold. "I wasn't good enough. I just got in the way."

"Don't give me that emo-bullshit, Sam…"

"Oh come on, you can't deny you spent most of the time saving me from something."

"That's my job! I'm your brother, I look out for you—that's how it's supposed to be. That's how it's always been. And you…you learned to pull your own weight. Pulled me or Dad out of the way of some supernatural freak a few times."

"Landed you in the ER more," he said.

Dean gritted his teeth. He hated arguing when Sam was determined to be an idiot. "You can't win every fight. You blame me for every time I let you get hurt on a hunt?"

"You've never _let_ me…Dean, you were in the hospital for three days after those zombies back in September, remember."

_You really wanna go there? Fine. _

"Yeah, that. I remember that, and let me tell you, Sam, it was fucking awesome to wake up and have Dad tell me you'd gone off to _college_ without a fucking word to me."

Sam faltered, but rallied and went on, "Then you remember how you ended up there."

He didn't, technically, because he'd flown headfirst into the side of a tractor (or something hard, he wasn't really sure what), but he'd found out upon waking at the hospital. "Sam…" he warned.

"I _shot_ you, Dean!" Sam's voice cracked in a way that would have been funny if Dean weren't too angry—too something, anyway—to laugh.

"Yeah, and it wasn't fun, but people screw up sometimes. Besides, you barely grazed me. Only needed four stiches." The zombie had done the rest.

"Sure, yeah, that makes it okay, then. Just kind of shot you. Helped the zombie along."

"Jesus fuck, Sam, what d'you want me to say? It was an accident! No one's blaming you!"

"Yeah? You sure about that?"

Dean's retort caught in his throat at the bitter smile (or grimace, maybe) that accompanied his brother's words. "This about Dad?" Sam didn't answer, but didn't deny either, which was answer enough. "Shit, Sam, Dad says things—"

"He was right."

"You mean everything you say when you fight with him? 'Cause I gotta say, some of the stuff that's come outta your mouth ain't exactly nice, either."

"It doesn't matter."

"No, you know what, I'm not throwing you your pity party. Because, Sam? We finished that hunt three days before you left. You know what that means? It was _three_ days before you were gonna start your college life, and you still hadn't told us. If I'd been there at the time, you still would've just said 'bye' and walked out."

"No. I wasn't going to tell you, anyway."

Dean wasn't even going to pretend that didn't hurt. Sam had wanted to walk away for a new life. Dean's life had walked away from him and hadn't even planned on saying goodbye. "So."

"That's...that's not what I meant."

"Pretty friggin' clear what you meant."

"One word, Dean. Just one word from you and I would have stayed."

Oh, now that was just unfair. "What part of _out cold in the fucking hospital_ don't you get? If you'd waited another _six hours_ I would've fucking told you how much we needed you!"

"I know." Sam dropped his eyes again. "And I would've stayed. That's why I had to go then. Before you could convince me."

"What was so important about this, huh? College. Stanford. Why'd you want to come here so bad?"

"I'm good at this, Dean, I'm really good at it. I needed something I could be good at."

"You're good at hunting."

Sam snorted. "Right. That's why you and Dad always had to save—"

"Pull your head out of your ass, Sam! I've been hunting twice as long as you." Well, it wasn't that much of an exaggeration. "This isn't a competition."

"We grew up being_scared_, Dean. All the time. How screwed up is that?"

"Did you miss the shapeshifter last night? You can't run away and close your eyes and hide from the big bad wolf!"

"Well, then maybe I just wanted normal for once."

"Bullshit! You didn't want normal. You wanted _safe_!"

"So what! Is that such a crime?"

The door creaked open behind them, letting in a sliver of sunlight. Dean stood abruptly and dragged his brother roughly to his feet, catching him as he staggered in surprise. "Come on. We're not doing this in here."

Once they were outside, the snow melting under their feet, Dean leaned on the side of the building, not know what to do but breathe. Sam wasn't offering any suggestions, but he slumped against the wall, too. A minute later, he heard Sam's breathing rhythm shift to match his own.

For a moment, it was like they were hunting again, just the two of them, every breath in synch so they could hear better, every movement coordinated in a tight pattern that only they could understand. The way they were standing—shoulder to shoulder, their backs to the wall, even the bandage on Sam's arm that was spotted with traces of blood—was so familiar that Dean suddenly itched to reach for his gun. This was how it should be. He just wished Sam would agree.

"You were safe with us," Dean finally said, quietly. "We woulda kept you safe."

Sam nodded. "Yeah. I know."

Eventually, the comfortable silence took a turn into _un_comfortable, and Dean fidgeted with a little snort. He wished absurdly that he had some telepathic power so he could make people in chick flicks decide to fight wendigos. If the Winchesters had to play out scenes like this, it was only fair to ask the reverse.

He pushed himself fully upright. "Let's go back. Your girlfriend's still sleeping in your room," he added, twitching the corner of his mouth upward.

He stopped when he felt Sam's grip on his arm. "We were never safe, Dean, no matter how much protection we put in the doorways. So, yeah, when I left, it was because…maybe I was tired of being scared all the time." Dean met his brother's eyes at the unexpected admission.

"You can't run away from it," he repeated, but there was no heat in the words this time.

"You know what's funny? This past semester, I've been looking over my shoulder every minute. And I haven't felt safe—not really. Until last night."

"That's a little fucked up." _You're a little fucked up_, he thought, watching how his brother alternated between complete, empty stillness and nervous little motions with his hands. "Shifters don't tend to be cuddly."

"Not that. After."

Dean looked away. "Okay." He peeled the hand from his arm, and reached up to clap Sam on the shoulder. "Come on. Let's go back."

XXXXX

A/N: There are issues left unresolved here. I'm not glossing over them—we will get there, I promise.

Also, I hope it's not too mushy.

XXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_John Winchester turned immediately toward his sons. _

"_Don't stand in the hallway," was the first thing he said._


	5. Chapter 5

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen. Briefly, Sam/Jess

Note: I'm not going to pretend I'm not nervous about this chapter. Anyway...

XXXXX

_"I was just going to college. It was Dad who said if I was gonna go I should stay gone." _

_("Pilot")_

XXXXX 

In the short time Dean was out of Sam's dorm room, Dad had gotten in the building and found his way to the room.

Dean stopped short at the doorway, his dad standing by Sam's generic, wooden desk while Jessica and Steve looked so uncomfortable—or downright scared, really—it was almost funny.

But only almost, because John Winchester turned immediately toward his sons. Dean heard Sam's soft gulp behind him.

"Don't stand in the hallway," was the first thing he said.

Dean's "Yessir" was automatic, but he was a little surprised to hear Sam echo it.

John stared at Sam, eyes fixing on the discolored patch on his cheek. Sam tried to burn holes in the side of his bed with his eyes and did this weird shifting thing where he seemed to be trying to stand straight and hunch down behind Dean at the same time. Dean cleared his throat.

"I interviewed the witnesses," John said without preamble. Dean raised his eyebrows at the phrasing. Dad was clinical, but this was a little formal even for him. He had the ridiculous thought that this wasn't how a dad was supposed to grill his baby son's first girlfriend, except, if it hadn't been for the hunting, yeah, it might have gone something like that anyway.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Sam stiffen and he rolled his eyes, stifling a groan._Here we go…_

"They're still in the room, Dad."

Dad's attention turned back to the other two students. "You two have homework to do or something?"

Sam's mouth dropped open, but Steve flinched visibly and Jessica nearly tripped over a book on the floor as they scrambled out.

When the door closed behind them, Sam said, incredulously, "I can't believe you just dismissed them from their own room like that."

Dark eyes turned onto the two younger Winchesters. "You want them in here?" They all knew it wasn't an option if they wanted to avoid further trauma or whatever.

"You could have been a little nicer."

Dean almost winced.

"Nice, Samuel?" _Samuel_ was a bad sign. Worse was the tone that said John was a few sentences away from shouting.

"Dad, as far as they can tell, _you_ attacked them last night!"

_Wait, what?_ Dean thought. "I thought it was a shapeshifter," he said for the third time since getting to Stanford.

Sam's blasted the look on him. "Oh, of course, because they're so used to shapeshifters. _I_ didn't even know what it was until it threw Steve six feet with one arm."

"But—"

"I found the body," John's voice cut through. "Some of the skin was still intact. That wasn't my face it was wearing."

"Not anymore," Sam muttered.

Dean's head reeled. "So it turned into _Dad_? You didn't tell me that." This added a new level to the crappiness, and the crap had been piling pretty friggin' high already.

Sam looked a little surprised, as if he hadn't realized he'd left that detail out. "Well, who'd you think it looked like?"

"How should I know, Einstein? Coulda been anyone. I didn't see it—wait, Dad, whose skin was it wearing when you found it?"

John looked at him. "Yours, son."

Dean tried to backtrack over the conversation he'd had with Sam that morning, wondering whether anything would have made more sense knowing that.

But something else was bothering him. "Dad and me, that's who it used? And you just…happened across it? Me and Dad are hunting this sonuvabitch and he hops across county lines to have a chat with you?"

John seemed to agree, though his expression barely changed. "It does seem unusually specific. What I don't understand is why it was so intent on killing you." He reached behind him and pulled out a silver knife from somewhere hidden. "Or why you would have left your weapon out in the open like that, Samuel." Dean raised his eyebrows and glanced toward his brother.

Sam didn't return the look this time—was deliberately avoiding it, actually. "I didn't get a chance to take care of the corpse. I thought it would be safer to leave the silver in its body in case I hadn't killed it." It didn't sound unreasonable, but Dean knew right away that it was a lie. For whatever reason, Sam had been damn sure it was dead last night.

John didn't know that, though, so he simply narrowed his eyes and grunted.

Sam's eyes were fixed on the floor. Dean saw the muscle in his jaw twitching, which meant he was holding back whatever storm was waiting to unleash itself on their dad. That he was trying at all struck Dean as a good sign, although not _that_ good because he knew it wouldn't last two minutes. "I…don't think it was trying to kill me, sir."

"You want to explain that?"

Sam looked like he would crack his teeth holding back his first response—it was an order, not a question. "It said so."

Dean rolled his eyes, because that sounded stupid even to him. Sure enough, Dad growled, "You didn't stop to think that, just maybe, it was lying?"

The defiance pushed through. "What's the point in lying about something like that, if it really wanted to kill me?"

Dean kind of wished people would stop talking about something with his face killing Sam.

"Any number of reasons, Samuel! To confuse you. To distract you. To—"

"It was telling the truth about some things."

"You know that, do you?"

Sam unclenched a fist and wiped it across his pant leg in what Dean recognized as a nervous gesture. "Did Mom die in a fire?"

All three of them went silent. John looked as if he couldn't understand the question, so Dean answered, "What the hell, Sam? Yes, it was a fire. You know that." It was practically the only thing Sam knew about Mom, in fact.

Sam didn't take his gaze from their dad's face, though. "It said she was…sliced open."

Dean turned away with an angry grunt and kicked Sam's chair because otherwise he might start swinging at someone—if Dad hadn't been there, Sam would've been a pretty good candidate.

So he was surprised when Dad sat down hard in the abused furniture.

"I never told you that," the older man said in a near-whisper. "I've never…not even Dean knew."

"So it's true," Sam said. The triumph that had so often accompanied those words in the past was replaced by confusion and something else that Dean might have been able to identify if he'd been less busy trying to wrap his head around this whole thing. "But…she…I remember the fire…"

Dean's head snapped up. "You were a baby, Sam; you can't possibly remember that." Dean did. He hadn't seen it happen, but the heat, the sound of Mom's scream. He was surprised at how defensive his tone was. _I remember. You don't have a clue what that's like._

Sam's expression was uneasy. For someone as keen on sensitivity and talking things out, he'd never been comfortable talking about Mom, as if he wasn't sure how to think of her. "I know that. I mean, I used to have dreams about fire. Right, Dean? When I was really little, still. Even before you told me how she died. Those must have been memories, right?"

_Pinned to the ceiling_, Dean remembered his dad telling him. _Burst into flames._

John's voice cut in. "There _was_ a fire. But it wasn't just the fire that killed her. She…whatever killed your mother…there was a...an incision in her stomach. Like she'd been…"

_Sliced open_, they all heard.

"You never told me," Dean said, not quite accusing; more in question. And since Dean had been the one to explain it to seven-year-old Sammy, his brother couldn't have known either.

John gave him a look and stood, taking on what Dean thought of as his field commander stance. It was back to the case. "But _I_ knew. So the shapeshifter knew. That's not a surprise."

"That's not all it said," Sam protested.

"If it said something without pulling it from our memories, we can't confirm that, either. We have to assume it was lying."

Sam laughed softly. Dean watched him warily, because it was that same short, desperate laugh he'd let out before in the church. Also, because nothing good ever came of Sam laughing while talking to Dad. "I think, in this case, maybe we should assume it was telling the truth."

His dad apparently wanted to have a staring contest with Sam—and Sam was the goddamn king of the glaring game—so Dean threw his hands up and broke in, "What the fuck, Sam?"

"He…_It_ said that it was working with the demon that killed Mom."

Dean was still thinking through the improbability of that when Dad snapped sharply, "Demon? The _demon_ that killed…?"

Dean realized what he should have before: they'd been looking for her killer with little progress for years. For their whole lives, basically. And Sam was saying—had said at least two or three times now—that it was a demon.

"Yeah," Sam answered. "A demon, it said. You didn't know _that_, did you?"

John was still staring, his face emotionless but with wheels clearly turning in his head. "No, I didn't. And we still don't know it. It could have been lying."

Sam's voice began to rise. "It said the demon was after me, Dad. Said they've been watching. Hunting us back."

Dean's head was shaking already. "Shifters can't even hunt in packs without trying to off each other. No way this one let itself be some demon's bitch." Sam snorted, amused by that for some reason.

Dad scowled at him, less amused at his language, but let it slide. "Your brother's right. It doesn't work that way. Demons and shapeshifters are on complete opposite ends of the spectrum."

"Dad, holy water worked on it. You ever see that in a creature? In anything besides a demon?"

When Dad answered, the only thing he said was, "I'm surprised you had holy water on you. I thought you were done with that."

_Uh oh_. "Dad," Dean started, recognizing where this was going.

John hadn't finished, though. "It's a good thing you did, but you can't be sure it really worked—not the way it works on demons."

Sam's face was twisted into outraged disbelief. "I can't be _sure_? Sir, I'm not completely incompetent—I know what I saw!"

The _sir_ used to pop up spontaneously whenever Sam tried to prove he could do the job. It had mostly disappeared recently, as Sam had tried to prove he didn't want to do the job, but here it was again. "Sam," Dean tried, "maybe we should—"

His brother whirled on him, now. "I know what I saw, Dean!"

"No one's saying you don't, Samuel!" Dad had taken a step closer and trying, as always, to loom over a son who was taller than himself. "Maybe it just flinched from surprise. It was dark. It was snowing. Everything was confused; you might have—"

"Everything was confused?" Sam repeated. "You mean, _I_ was confused. Jesus, Dad, the water _boiled_ off its skin. That's why I thought it was possessed to begin with!"

"Your roommate said you started an exorcism," Dean jumped in, trying to figure out whether it was more important to finish this hellish debriefing or stop his family from punching each other. Then again, one would probably lead to the other, so... "Did it work?"

Sam was silent for a few minutes, muscles tight around his jaw. "No," he admitted grudgingly, quietly. Dean looked closer and realized Sam was breathing faster than usual, not just from anger, but from some other emotion, too. "But. But, Dad, that's not all. What if... It could have been involved with the demon somehow. It knew things; you didn't hear what it—"

"It doesn't matter," John dismissed, and Sam looked down, exhaling sharply. "Our job is saving people. Saving _humans_, Sam. If it's supernatural, we kill it. That's it. Doesn't matter what its reasons were."

Sam looked up, and Dean swore he was about to say something but stopped himself before it came out. Normally, this was completely fine, since usually Sam did this when he wanted to have say some chick-flick thing, but even Sam never tried that with Dad.

Still, he didn't complain, because the faster this discussion ended, the better.

Sam wasn't quite done yet, though. "Dad. What it said about Mom…"

John snapped. "Samuel!" he growled, advancing on the youngest Winchester, who stepped back. "You know everything you need to about your mother. I will not have my son question me about the death of my _wife_ because of something a filthy monster said. Is that clear!"

By now Sam was backed against his desk with their dad's face inches away. Dean moved forward, about to force them apart, when he heard Sam's whisper, soft but sharp with fury. "Because it was my fault, isn't that right, Dad? If it hadn't been for me, your wife would have lived, and your favorite son wouldn't be--"

Dean didn't stop, pushed between them anyway. "Back off," he said, shoving them hard, "both of you back the hell off!" Standing between them now, he looked from one to the other. Sam was breathing hard, tense, fucking _trembling_, and there was no mistaking that other emotion this time. As Dean watched, Sam lowered his gaze.

John, uncharacteristically, was staring at the floor, too. "Dad?" Dean asked, stepping away so he could see both at once. "Am I hearing this right? Did you...?"

He looked up, then, and spoke softly, tightly. "Sam. I...we both said things we didn't mean. Did things we didn't mean."

"You believe it, though," Sam said. "You've been thinking it. Just needed to be said."

Something clicked into place. "S'this about the damn shapeshifter?" Dean said, and they both snapped their heads around to stare at him, as if they'd forgotten he was there. "Sam, for God's...it was _lying_. It was screwing with your fucking head, and obviously it knew how to do it pretty well. That doesn't mean it was true."

"Yeah?" Sam answered. His gaze fixed on Dean's eyes before sliding away, and Dean remember with a jolt that the bastard had worn his skin, too. Christ. Dad suspected that shapeshifters could do some freaky shit to a person's head—if it could suck thoughts out, maybe it could nudge them in, too.

"What exactly did it say to you, Sam?" he asked carefully, trying to make his brother look up at him.

"That _discussion_ we had before I left?" Sam said, looking at John instead. "Did a little replay of it. Nothing I haven't heard before."

John's expression had hardened. "You talk back to it the way to did to me?"

"Why? Wanna take another swing?"

That was over the line. "Sam!" Dean snapped. "That's—" But from the corner of his eye, he saw John's minute flinch, and he stopped, staring. "_Dad?_"

The older man's jaw was clenched, the same way Sam did when he was uncomfortable. "Sammy, I didn't...I didn't mean..."

Dean didn't have to hear it to know. "You hit him?" he hissed, instinctively stepping between Sam and his dad. "Dad, you said that...and you actually...?" He looked at the bruise on Sam's face, saw John's eyes flick toward it and away again.

It never came to blows between them. Between Dean and Sam, sure, like any other brothers raised to fight the way they had been. But with Dad...punishment was PT, extra time cleaning the guns and sharpening the knives, hours spent reciting Latin. He wasn't afraid to hit them, but only as a direct lesson to teach them to fight harder, run faster.

"You done this before?" Dean asked, suddenly horrified that he could have missed something like this, at the thought of his Sammy... "You been trying to control him by _beating_—"

"He didn't beat me, Dean." The answer was quick and came from Sam, who was, incredibly, _defending_ Dad. "Don't think...I've taken worse than a punch before. From both of you," he reminded.

"That's not what I'm talking about, Sam. Dad, how could..."

"Enough, Dean!" John snapped. "You heard your brother; you heard me. You're going to start questioning both of us now?"

"It was just that one time," Sam added, looking torn between terror and defiance and embarrassment.

Disturbingly, it reminded Dean of a girl he'd fucked once. Picked her up from this bar where some guy—her boyfriend—had been pushing her around. _He doesn't usually_, she'd said told him as they left. _Just once or twice_. He'd gone back to the bar later and let the bastard know why he shouldn't push women around.

Now, faced with his dad and his brother, he heard himself said, "Okay." Then, because he couldn't stop it, "Is that why you left?"

Sam bit his lip, lowered himself onto the edge of his bed, and shook his head. "No. That wasn't why." Dean could hear the truth in the words and hated that he could forgive his father his action, as long as it hadn't driven Sam away.

Dean took the chair his dad had vacated, not knowing what to say and not wanting to look either in the eye. Finally, when the silence had taken another step through awkward territory, he remembered the conversation they'd had in the church. "Uh, Sam, what we were talking about before, with the holy water. You said you've always been able..."

He stopped. Sam's eyes were wide now, fixed on his, darting for less than a second to their dad. _Not here_, they screamed. _Not in front of Dad_.

And because Dean was too tired to keep trying, he finished, "...to, uh, to get enough to have some with you. You should probably keep carrying some on you. Just in case."

"Yeah. Okay."

John hadn't even noticed the exchange that lay beneath the words. He was already walking toward the door. "So. We finished the shapeshifter. Come on, boys. The car's a few blocks down."

"I gotta take a leak, Dad," Dean said, not looking away from his brother, who had stiffened. Had heard the implicit, _Back to the road. Both of you_. "Meet you there in ten."

Their dad nodded and didn't say goodbye as he left.

XXXXX

"I can show you where the bathroom is," Sam offered feebly. Dean gave him the y_ou're-a-stupid-idiot­_ look, and Sam sighed and dropped it. "I was almost hoping me and Dad would...you know." He gestured vaguely.

"Talk it out, say sorry, and be best buddies?" Dean finished. "Yeah, right." He didn't mention that he'd been hoping for it, too.

Sam snorted, hunching down, tightening his fist around a handful of bed sheet. "Yeah."

"I talked to your friends a little," Dean said, his voice stiff even to his own ears. "They, uh, they seem like good kids."

"Dean, I'm sorry—"

"Don't." He took a breath. "I'm glad you have friends here."

It hurt to see relief vying for a place in Sam's expression. "You mean..."

"You wanna come with us, Sam?" Dean was immensely proud of the neutrality he forced into the tone.

"Dean. I..." Sam swallowed and raked a hand through his hair. "I don't know if...I can't..."

"Your arm okay? Your face?" Dean interrupted.

Sam bit his lip at the change in topic. "It's fine. I'm serious, man, it wasn't that big a deal." Sam fidgeted. "It wasn't just him, you know, that night. I said some stuff..."

"I know the pattern," Dean cut him off. Then, as if pulling out his own entrails, he said, "Maybe it's a good idea to...have some space. You know. Cool off a little."

Oddly, there was no relief in Sam's face now. His eyes were dry and blank, but his voice shook as he breathed, "_Dean..._"

Clearing his throat, Dean stood. "I'll talk to Dad." He hesitated as he passed his brother's slouching form. "I'll call," he said, reaching down to cup a hand around Sam's neck. "Pick up, huh?"

"I will," Sam whispered. "I will."

Dean's hand squeezed gently once, then lifted away, brushing the moisture off Sam's cheek as he left.

XXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_The headaches started a few days later._

XXXXX

A/N: John might be a little out of character. In my head, he's actually not that much of an ass. While I'll make an effort to make him more three-dimensional, he might well stay flatter than our two boys, who are the focus of the story, simply because of lack of pages devoted to him._  
_


	6. Chapter 6

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen. Briefly, Sam/Jess

Notes:

1. There's a character brought up here named Joshua. He is my own--not the Joshua of the Brotherhood AU, for example. Assume nothing more about him than we actually know from the show itself (basically, that he's a hunter John knows).

XXXXX

_"I know what to do about your premonitions. I know where we have to go." _

_("Nightmare") _

XXXXX

"So, you and your brother," Jess said three days later. "You're close, huh?"

"Close?"

Jess was lounging in Steve's unoccupied bed with a while Sam absently finished a problem set. Sam glanced up from the cell phone he'd been turning over in his hand. The conversation that morning had been stilted and awkward, but...okay, considering. He hadn't heard Dad in the background, but couldn't make himself ask. Dean hadn't offered, either. They never talked about the hunts. The gaping holes left by their avoidance spoke just as loudly.

"Close" seemed the wrong word for him and Dean, somehow. Too strong, maybe. Or not strong enough. In Sam's mind, _close_ meant talking to each other, sharing interests. Sharing a space, maybe, when needed, but able to occupy space alone, too.

_We shared a bed until we were too big to fit_. _He punched me in the mouth when I was five and then cooked dinner for me. We know everything about each other and don't understand each other at all._

_He kills everything supernatural and now maybe there's some of that in me, too_.

"Yeah," he answered. "We're close."

"Is he as good at the...hunting stuff as you are?"

Sam furrowed his brow at her. "Why are you and Steve so interested? I'd have thought you'd had enough after...you know. Last weekend." Steve, in particular, was still a little uneasy about the weapons stashed around the room (his dad was an adamant pacifist, and Steve hadn't quite shaken off the anti-gun ideals he'd been raised with), but he made up for it with enthusiasm for the academic side of hunting.

"What, so I should just ignore it, now I know what's out there?" Sam didn't quite flinch at her casual words. "Besides, it's kinda cool. You were pretty slick, dealing with that shapeshifter."

_Cool_, he thought bitterly. _Until someone gets hurt_.

Forcing a smile, he said, "Dean's a lot better at all of it. Always has been."

That wasn't quite true, but Dean _was_ better at everything he cared to be better at. He could do the research and the rituals, but he didn't have the knack for them that Sam—or even Dad—did. Well, there was lockpicking, too, but that was just because of practice: Sam usually ended up opening doors and hacking systems while Dean stood guard over him.

The only thing Dean sometimes griped about was that Sam could beat him at hand-to-hand or knife-fighting, especially in close quarters. Even then, it was by a small margin, and only because of physical advantage. Plus, even after he'd shot up past Dean's head, Sam's body still remembered the days when he was the shortest kid his age and had to be fast. Still, Sam might be book-smart, but Dean was the smarter fighter, instinct melding smoothly with sharp strategy and dirty tricks to make him a natural hunter; he'd probably win every sparring match if they had the same height and strength.

Dean grumbled, but really, he liked guns more, so he didn't complain too much.

"You're very different," Jess observed. "You and your brother, I mean. I wasn't expecting him to be so unlike you."

Sam shrugged. "He'd like you," he told her honestly. "He comes on a little strong at first, but I think you'd like him, too, once you got to know him."

There wasn't even a hint of jealousy in that, he realized with surprise. Sam could imagine the three of them having a beer together, his girlfriend and his brother both teasing him the way only they could. He didn't think he'd mind it that much. They'd get along as friends, Dean and Jess, with their delight at the thought of badass monsters, their air of confidence, even their music.

But Jess possessed the bright-eyed hopefulness that Dean sometimes pretended to wear, and Sam couldn't help but wonder if that would still be there if she'd stood guard over her closet with a .45 when she was nine.

Jess studied his face for a moment. "Maybe...next time we meet will be under more relaxing circumstances. I'd like to get to know your family."

_More relaxing. Only if Dad's not there. If there's no hunt to run off to. If I'm back in the hunt and away from Stanford, meaning away from Jess..._ "Yeah," he said again, knowing the chances of that ever happening were low. "I'd like that, too."

A few minutes passed in silence. Tentatively, she asked, "Are you planning on staying here over the Thanksgiving break?"

Just a week ago, he wouldn't have considered anything else. Now, part of him itched to call Dean and ask what they had planned.

The smarter part of him knew the answer would be a hunt. Knew that nothing had changed, really. He and Dean might be on speaking terms again, but they still weren't saying anything.

"Sure," he told Jess, shrugging. "It'll give me some time to work on..." He wracked his brain for something he needed to work on. "...on my history reading. I'm a little behind." _If a week ahead counts as 'behind.'_

Her look let him know how well she believed that. "Alright. But, you know, you're welcome to come stay with me over the break."

"A little soon to be meeting the parents, don't you think?"

"No," she said bluntly. "They'll love you, baby. I hate to think of you alone for Thanksgiving."

He thought he should be feeling more conflicted about the offer, but there was no hesitation when he shook his head, smiling at her. "Thanks, Jess, but...I've got some stuff here I want to sort out."

She nodded, looking disappointed.

XXXXX

The headaches started a few days later.

Not headaches so much as one, singular headache that crept in on Monday and refused to let up.

Jess said it was from stress—every professor seemed to be trying to fit in an exam before Thanksgiving. Sam thought it was probably stress, too, but not from an exam. He'd stopped dreaming again.

Or he thought so, anyway, until Steve asked him who Max was.

"Who?" Sam asked, massaging his temple.

"I don't know, dude, I was asking you. You were dreaming something about, uh, needing to get him away. I figured maybe he was someone you'd run into, you know, on a job." Even more than Jess, Steve was like a little kid, digging for stories about hauntings and witches. He'd been crushed to learn Bigfoot wasn't real.

"I've never met anyone named Max." He winced as a flash, almost like an image, popped before his eyes.

Steve watched him as he fumbled for a bottle of aspirin. "You sure you don't get migraines? Flashes of light could be an aura."

"Thought auras were supposed to come _before_ the headache," Sam grumbled before swallowing the pills. Steve shrugged.

With the way Steve and Jess had started seeing the supernatural in everything (Sam had had to point out that their calculus professor had a reputation for being harsh and that strict grading wasn't proof of demonic possession), he supposed it was a good thing they were thinking migraines instead of suggesting some kind of weird psychic business or something.

"Maybe you've got a connection to some sadistic psychic," Steve suggested.

Sam shook his head and left for class. "What?" Steve said from behind him. "It's possible, isn't it?"

XXXXX

By Thursday, Jess was starting to rethink the stress theory. "You should see someone about this, Sam," she whispered to him.

They were sitting at a round table in the lounge of their dorm building, Sam carelessly finishing an essay while Jess, having taken her last test earlier that day, came to relax with friends. Becky and her brother Zach were bickering about something to do with their flight home to Missouri tomorrow. Mike was working on the same essay as Sam, and Steve was looking for a page of notes he'd lost somewhere.

"I'm not kidding. This could be a warning sign for something more serious."

"It's probably just a migraine," he answered, trying to look like he wasn't squinting to block out the daggers of light assaulting his eyes. "You said it yourself."

"Well, even if that's it, you should see someone about that! You don't mess around with pain like this, not if it's lasted this long."

Thinking back on the concussions he'd had—and others he'd seen—he grunted something noncommittal.

Becky looked up to tease Jess about whispering sweet nothings into Sam's ear, and he felt a little guilty for his relief when she shut up.

An hour later, Mike commented, "You walked out of IHUM today."

"It's a stupid class," Sam ground out, irritated.

Mike raised an eyebrow at him. "Well, it's not like you, is all. You liked it fine in the beginning of the semester."

"Yeah, sure," he muttered back, his tone making clear what he thought of that opinion.

Mike rolled his eyes. "Whatever man. Sorry for trying to make some conversation."

Sam thought he should feel bad for dismissing his classmate so abruptly, but instead, he rose stiffly, blinking at the hammering pain that was still escalating. "I'm done for tonight," he forced out, not caring about how strained his words sounded. His stomach roiled, and he managed to make his leaning on the table look as if he were just reaching to close a notebook. He knocked into his backpack, though, which fell with a thump, and he couldn't help hissing as the sound drove another spike through his head.

"Leave it," Becky told him, looking a little worried. He didn't have to look at Jess to know she was, too. "We'll bring it back to the room for you."

Normally, he would have refused, but the thought of moving more than he had to was enough to make him feel sick. Pinching the bridge of his nose, he pushed away from the table, letting his lack of response serve as an acknowledgement.

"Let him get some sleep," he heard Becky say and he made his way down the hallway. Jess's huff came a second later, followed by the sound of someone sitting back down.

Once in his room, out of earshot, Sam swallowed the last few aspirin in his bottle and collapsed into bed, not bothering to pull the covers over himself.

He didn't think sleep would be coming easily, but there was a strange, unexpected feeling of blackness closing in on him.

He found himself pushing back, suddenly afraid of being trapped under...whatever it was.

Then, like something breaking, everything exploded behind his eyes.

And he knew, just before he lost consciousness, what drowning was like.

XXXXX

Dean's last hunt had been a waste of time. The Black Dog had turned out to be a black bear, and he'd found out that apparently you weren't supposed to shoot them.

He was driving away when his phone rang, so he only glanced at the screen long enough to register that he didn't know the number. Flipping it open, he answered with, "Yeah?" in the neutral tone he saved for when he couldn't be sure of what he was dealing with.

The voice on the other end was breathy, shaken, and he couldn't quite place where he'd heard it before. "Um...Dean? Is this Dean Winchester?"

"Yeah," he said again, trying to remember if they'd helped some girl and left her his number. "Who is this?"

"I don't know if you remember; my name is Jessica Moore, I met you last..."

"Jessica?" he asked, alarmed, one hand tightening on the phone and the other around the wheel. Right; he'd left his number with her at Stanford. "What happened? Is Sam okay?"

"Where are you?" she said, not answering his question, and he forced himself to stay calm. Yelling at her wouldn't do any good. Pulling off the road, he idled on the shoulder.

"I left San Jose a few hours ago. Jessica. What happened."

"Uh...Sam's in the hospital."

He was heading west before he registered turning the car around. "Is he okay?" he asked again past the stifling fog of fear that threatened to settle around him. "What happened?"

"He's been having these...uh, these headaches," she answered. "We thought it was just stress, but it got worse. This morning, his roommate went to wake him up for class and he..."

"What? He what? Jessica!"

"He was...I don't know, delirious or something? He was in pain; we didn't know what to do, so the RA called an ambulance. He kept saying weird things, like maybe flashbacks or something, I don't know, and he was calling for you..."

That was enough. Jesus Christ. "What's the name of the hospital?"

XXXXX

It took almost five hours to get there. He'd barely started yelling at the reception lady when he heard, "Dean?"

With a final glare for the woman behind the desk, he crossed the floor in what seemed like a single step to where Steve had just stood up. He sort of looked like shit, but honestly? Dean couldn't bring himself to care all that much at the moment. "Where is he? What's going on?"

Steve shifted awkwardly. "They said they could give him something for the pain and do some tests, but that's it. They're hoping it'll fade on its own, but they're watching him because he hasn't been all that...um. Coherent."

That was a little scary. Okay, a lot scary. Sam had had some monster headaches before—who hadn't after all, especially with their lives—but he'd never gotten confused or anything, not just from that. "He hasn't hit his head recently or anything?"

"No, nothing like that."

"Is he asleep now? What's he been saying?" Flashbacks, Jess had said, but it wasn't like she'd really know, was it, since she had no idea about anything Sam might flash back to.

"Uh, he woke up a few times. Sometimes he seems to get what's going on, but sometimes...he says things that don't really make sense. Like, he said you got shot in the head?"

Dean stared. "O...kay, so that hasn't happened before. He must be dreaming, then. Where the hell is he?" A thought struck him. "Is anyone with him?" Dean starting moving toward his brother's room, only, oh wait, he had no clue where that was. Scrubbing a hand over his eyes, he suppressed a growl—well, mostly suppressed it—and turned to Steve.

"Here, come on. I was only out here to wait for you. Jess has been sitting with him." They began walking immediately.

There was an odd moment in which Dean hated the two students with an aching intensity he didn't want to explain. It was fleeting, though, and when he spoke, it was only, "Thanks."

Steve gave a little nod and asked, too carefully to pass as casual, "Is your dad here?"

Dean tightened his jaw for a moment, until he was sure he voice would come out neutral. "I called him. He might not have gotten the message yet."

Another nod and an awkward silence made excruciating by the endless hospital hallway—Jesus, how fucking far away did they have to put his brother, anyway? Dean was about to repeat the question aloud, but from the open doorway just ahead, he heard a voice saying,

"Sam? You with me again, baby?"

There was no time for the obligatory smirk at Jessica's name for his brother, because in the next instant, he heard a much more familiar voice, slower than usual, slurred, soft. "Mm...Dean?"

Dean was inside the room in a second, ignoring the girl's jump as he appeared by the bedside. The room was dark, but he didn't wait for his eyes to adjust before starting to speak. "Hey, Sammy. I'm here. You look like crap," he added, taking in the pinched, sweaty face and the IV line in his arm. Just saline, he saw, which was probably a good sign. Maybe.

Sam's legs curled toward his chest, and he gave a pathetic-sounding moan as he rolled slowly toward the side where Dean stood. Dean's hand had found itself on Sam's head, his thumb brushing sweaty bangs from his brother's squinting eyes. "Sam," Dean said again. "You awake? I hear you've been callin' my name. I'm flattered, dude, but you know how I feel about chicks..."

Sam's eyes opened another fraction of an inch, and his brow furrowed. "Huh?" he asked, barely more than a croak, but his hand reached out, and Dean gripped it without thinking, as if his touch alone was enough to soothe.

Fuck. What the hell was he supposed to do with this? _Come on, Dad, where the hell are you already?_

"M'head," Sam grunted, turning his face into the pillow. "H-hurts..."

"Shh," Dean murmured uselessly, then directed his next words toward the other two in the room. "Thought you said he was on painkillers?"

Jess sniffled. She'd clearly been crying, he saw now. "After he woke up the first time, he said he didn't want them, and they said, since he'd refused..."

Shit. Sam always did this at the hospital, after his first terrifying experience with morphine. He'd hallucinated for hours, babbling about shadows and monsters coming for them before the drug could wear off.

"I c'n hear you," Sam muttered, his voice muffled in the pillow. "'M still in the...the room."

Well, not hallucinating now, apparently. "Hey," Dean said softly. "Sam, you know, maybe you should just let them give you the drugs. I'll be here the whole time, you don't have to worry about..."

"Wanted my head clear," Sam mumbled. "Have to tell you."

"Well, that sounds vaguely ominous," he quipped back automatically.

"Where's Dad?"

This was seriously the worst time for everything. Why the hell had the man gone off hunting alone, now of all times?

Why wasn't he answering Dean's calls?

"He's...I left him a message, Sammy, he'll come when he gets it." He _would_.

"S'not what I meant." Sam pulled his face out of the pillow to stare—well, squint, whatever—at Dean. "He's gonna be too late."

Alarms rang loud in Dean's ears. "Sam? Don't say...What...?"

"For the woman," Sam amended, making things as clear as the Los Angeles sky. "He'll get there...too late to save her." He squeezed his eyes shut again and exhaled shakily.

The alarm bells muted, but another set started jangling. "Wait...How do you...?"

"It's the demon again. The one...that killed Mom."

A few beats passed with Dean unable to say anything, and Sam's eyes opened again, now shot through with a hint of fear. "Dean?"

"I'm still here," he said numbly, then, "Sam, I didn't tell you what he was hunting." Or even that he'd _been_ hunting.

_("Got a tip," John told Dean tersely. "The demon that killed your mother. I know where it was last seen."_

"_So Sam was right? It was a demon?"_

_John didn't answer. _

"_Well, let's go, then. Where—"_

"_There's a Black Dog near San Jose. Take care of it. I'll call you when I'm done.")_

Sam's eyes were wandering away, though, and the fear in them was growing into panic. They snapped once more to Dean's face. "You have to get her out of there," he hissed, breaths coming faster.

"Sam?"

"He's going to get her, too," Sam continued hoarsely, then moaned. "No. No...Jess! Get away! No..."

A choking sound from behind him made Dean turn long enough to see Sam's girlfriend's stricken face. Leaning over Sam again, he whispered, "She's...Jess is fine, she's right there, see her? Shh...it's okay. You gotta breathe, Sammy, you hear me? Slow down. Shh..."

And just as with every nightmare—and this definitely qualified as a fucking nightmare—Sam's hand curled around Dean's and he calmed. "You'll make sure?"

Man, this was screwed up. "Yeah," Dean promised, with the uncomfortable feeling of not knowing what he was agreeing to. "'Course I will, Sammy."

"S'not a Black Dog," Sam added, making a chill run down Dean's spine.

He recovered quickly. "You couldn't've told me that before I starting shooting at an angry bear?"

Sam didn't answer. A guy in a labcoat appeared at the doorway just as Sam's eyes drooped closed again in sleep. "Mr. Winchester?"

Making sure he was truly asleep, Dean slipped his hand away, brushed past Steve and Jess, and walked purposefully toward the doctor until he'd backed a few steps out of the room. "Uh, s-sir..." the man stammered.

"What the hell is going on with him?" Dean demanded.

The doctor gathered a tiny backbone and asked, "What relation are you to—"

"I'm his brother, dammit, I'm his next of fucking kin—"

"Sir—Mr. Winchester, you have to calm down—"

"My brother's in pain in there and...and...and fucking delirious and so help me God, if you don't give me an answer..."

The problem was, he was starting to think maybe it wasn't delirium. Sam knew, somehow, what Dad was doing, when no one besides himself and Dean had even had a clue...

No. Impossible. Sam was obsessing over the demon, like he always did about whatever was bothering him. Just a coincidence. There was a reasonable explanation for this.

_But the Black Dog..._

"I'm afraid I don't have a definite explanation for you yet," the doctor said, and Dean had to force himself to relax his clenching fists. Decking the guy wouldn't help. Probably. "But we did an MRI and a CT scan on your brother already, and the images have come back normal. There's nothing to indicate an aneurysm or anything else too alarming at this stage."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"No, but it does raise the probability that it's a normal headache. A migraine, probably."

"Sam doesn't get migraines," Dean stated flatly.

"I see that from his...extensive medical records, but it's not unusual for a young man of his age to begin experiencing them," the doctor replied, looking more unruffled now that Dean had stopped raging at him. "I'm leaning in that direction, actually. He's been shying away form light and seems to be having some visual disturbances, feeling nauseous. Confusion and even sensory hallucinations are not unheard of in severe cases like your brother's. I've called in a consult from neurology, though, for another opinion, and I've scheduled an EEG for him."

"And the IV?"

"Just to keep him hydrated," the doctor placated. "As I mentioned, he's been nauseous and hasn't been able to drink."

"Well, that's just peachy," he groused. He turned back to see Sam's friends sitting now, not-so-surreptitiously trying to listen. He jumped when the doctor lay a hand on his arm.

"Your brother will most likely be fine," he said, in what was supposed to be a comforting tone but actually sounded too rehearsed to be truly soothing. "I'm just going to check in on him, and I'll have the nurse take some vital signs. Don't worry." With a practiced smile, the man entered Sam's room.

Dean's cell range before he could follow, though, and he snapped it to his ear without looking at the screen. "Dad?"

The person who answered wasn't his dad, though, and he was distracted by a nurse who pushed him toward the waiting area, pointing at the _No Cellular Phones, Please_ sign.

"_Hello?"_ he heard once he'd escaped the nurse. _"Are you there?"_

"Yeah, yeah. Who is this?"

"_Dean? This is Joshua Smithley. I've met you before..."_

"...with my dad, yeah, I remember," Dean finished. They'd gone to the man a few times, years ago, mostly when John's usual munitions supplier, Caleb, had been away. "Listen, Joshua, uh, this really isn't a good time for..."

"_I know, I know. I saw your dad just now, and—"_

Dean straightened. "What? You...where is he? Where..." He frowned. "And what do you mean, 'you know'?"

"_He told me about your brother."_ Dean's hand tightened. _"You called him, right? About little Sammy?"_

He didn't know Joshua all that well, but Dad did—the man was a good friend, a proven ally. Still, John usually kept everything close to his chest. "Why'd he tell you?" _Why didn't he pick up the goddamn phone and tell _me "Did he say he was coming?"

"_He's...There was an emergency, and he had to...Dean, listen to me. I can help."_

Fuck that. "There was an _emergency_? Did he say what? His son's...There's something wrong with my brother, Joshua, and..." Dean looked around, lowering his voice. "I don't think it's what the doctor says it is."

"_It's not_," Joshua told him seriously. Dean had wanted an answer, but this wasn't the one he'd been hoping for.

"How the hell do you know that?"

There was a pause, then, _"You should probably bring Sammy here. Easier—safer—than trying to explain over the phone."_

Dean glanced over his shoulder, as if he could still see Sam from here. "Right. The way things are now, I don't think it'll be that easy. You gotta give me more than that."

They trusted Joshua, he was pretty sure, but still...dragging an incoherent little Sammy—who, by the way, wasn't all that little anymore—to see a guy they kind of knew on nothing more than his word? Yeah, not happening.

"_I understand,"_ came Joshua's answer. It was calm—he was a hunter, too, and knew how important it was to be careful. _"Your dad said to tell you 'no fire.' Does that mean something to you?"_

Dean almost laughed. It had been years since they'd needed that password—he was pretty sure Sam had picked it, but Sam insisted it had been Dean. Dad didn't give a shit, as long as his boys didn't open the door to strangers who didn't know it. These days, they had passwords that meant _Danger—Trap_. They'd been kids the last time they'd used the one for _All Clear—Safe_.

The one that meant_Dad's not coming home_.

"Yeah," he said. "It does." He hesitated. "Joshua, I gotta...You can't tell me anything else? This is my brother, man."

There was a sigh on the other end. _"Your brother...he's been seeing things, hasn't he? Having...dreams. About things he shouldn't—couldn't—have known. Things that haven't happened yet."_

Dean didn't need the meaning spelled out. "That's crazy. You're saying he's...nuh uh. That..." _...makes more sense than anything else I can think of._

"_You need to get here Dean. I can help."_

He scrubbed a hand over his face and paced a few frustrated steps, then made the decision. "You're still out in Nevada? Where exactly, again?"

"_Hawthorne. Same place as last time you were here."_

Huh. He'd only been an hour or two away from there when Jessica had called him back to Palo Alto. Ironic. _Yeah, screw you, too, God_._ And you too, Dad_, he added in his thoughts. They'd been practically on top of each other—where was his dad now?

Trying to estimate the route in his head, he got out, "Yeah. Okay. Uh. We'll be there as soon as, uh... We're five or six hours away, I think, and I'll need some time to break him outta here first."

"_Can you manage it?"_

He laughed shortly. "Piece of cake. Just like old times." Of course, last time they'd had to run from the hospital with Child Services on their case, Sam had been ten and pretty damn short. "I'll manage."

"_I understand,"_ Joshua said again. _"Just don't take too long. Your brother needs help. Oh, and Dean? If Sam starts talking about something—even if it doesn't make sense to you—remember it, yeah? It might be important."_

There was a click, and Dean lowered his head. Jesus.

Okay. First things first.

XXXXX

"Guys, thanks for coming here with Sam," Dean told Jess and Steve once he'd made his way back to the room. "Why don't you go back, get some rest? I'll stay with him," he added when Jess looked like she wanted to protest.

"I don't want to leave Sam," she told him, lifting her chin. Dean resented a little that she was actually taller than he was, in those boots she had on. Of course, Sam had to go pick a girl who was not only tall but also stubborn. Loyalty to his brother was a plus in Dean's book, but now wasn't a good time for it.

"Look, I get it," he said, slipping easily into the role of fabricator. Flirting with her wouldn't help in this case, so he drew on sympathy for Sam instead. "But I know my brother, and when he gets better, he'll be pretty upset that he missed classes today, right? I was hopin' you'd talk to his professors, you know, pick up notes for him or whatever."

Steve was nodding; Jess was still hesitating, so Dean pushed a little more. "He really wants to do well here. It's really important to him."

It worked. "Yeah, you're right," she admitted. "He's been working really hard; I don't want anything to ruin his chances here."

Funny how the same words from her mouth hit so much harder. He scrounged up something resembling a smile. "Great."

"You'll call if...?"

"Yeah, sure," he replied, quashing the urge to look at his watch or prod her out the door. "You can get back okay?"

Finally, she sighed and nodded, and he watched until both students were out of sight before turning back to his brother, who was still asleep.

"Time to shag ass, little brother."

XXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

"_Did you stop her?" Sam asked suddenly, his gaze almost feverish, but piercing, unwavering. "You _promised_. We have to save her."_


	7. Chapter 7

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen. Briefly, Sam/Jess

Notes:

In case you hadn't noticed by now, I'm not from Stanford, nor have I ever been within five hundred miles of Palo Alto. I probably should have mentioned it before (but I forgot).

XXXXX

_"I dreamt about Jessica's death. For days before it happened."_

_("Home")_

XXXXX

They'd only gotten a few miles from the hospital when Sam woke.

This time, there was no slow, groggy return to consciousness. One second he was lying in the back seat, dressed in borrowed—okay, stolen—scrubs, a stolen pillow under his head and a spare jacket spread over his body.

The next instant, he was sitting up so fast he wobbled and rolled halfway off, his bent legs hitting the floor and his ass barely catching the edge of the seat.

Dean jumped so hard he almost crashed into the car in the next lane, barely regaining enough control to pull off to the shoulder. "Holy shit, Sam!" Then, "Sam? You okay?"

When he didn't get a response, he twisted in the seat to look at the brother.

Sam's hand was at his head, and he stared straight ahead. As Dean watched, his eyes flicked from one point to another, as if he were seeing something.

Or, considering what Joshua was saying, _seeing_ something.

"Sa—"

"Did you stop her?" Sam asked suddenly, his gaze almost feverish, but piercing, unwavering. "You _promised_."

"Calm down, Sam, we're going somewhere safe. Joshua, you remem—"

"No, Dean! We have to go back! We have...have to save her. It's gonna kill her..."

"Who?" He thought frantically back to the hospital. "You think something's after your girlfriend? Sam, I just saw her half an hour ago..."

Sam made a noise that could have been pain or frustration. "It's _waiting_ for me, Dean. In my room, and she'll walk right into it. We have to...I've got to go back."

"Sam, listen to yourself! You're not making any sense. We need to get you to Joshua. You're sick...Sammy? Sam! Stop that!"

Sam had pushed himself partially out the door by the time Dean scrambled out to intercept him. His breaths were fast, panicked, and his eyes stretched wide. "Let go of me! _Please_...I saw it happen, it's gone after her, just like Mom..."

"Fuck, Sam!"

"I'll _walk_ back if I have to!" He surged forward again, still fighting against Dean, close to hyperventilation.

"Okay! Jesus. I'm listening!" Dean staggered as Sam collapsed limply in his arms. "You...you dreamed about it?" he asked uncertainly, thinking of the warnings about the demon and the Black Dog and of Joshua's advice of listening to whatever bullshit Sam was imagining.

"It wasn't just a dream. I'll go back on my own if you don't help, I swear to God..." His eyes were tight with pain, but clear and bright with determination. Desperation.

Dean only needed a second to see Sam was deadly serious. If he was right, he'd be crushed if something happened to his girlfriend and they didn't try to stop it. And if he was right...if this was what killed Mom...

Letting out a shaky breath, he heaved his brother back into the car. "Fine. We'll go back and check on her, and then we have to get you to Joshua. Jesus, would you help me out a little here, you giant freak?"

Dean turned back to Palo Alto. Sam sat back up, more slowly this time.

"Lie down," he said tensely.

"Am I a freak?" Sam asked.

"You really want me to answer that?"

Sam didn't joke back. Dean caught his gaze briefly in the rearview mirror before focusing back on the road. A freak? Whatever this was, it sure as hell wasn't normal. "You've always been a freak, Sammy."

That seemed to be the right response, because Sam looked away and nodded. "What's happening to me?"

"Hell if I know. Dad says Joshua Smithley, from the arms shop—said he can help you." Not quite true, yeah, but close enough. "We'll figure this out."

Sam frowned, wrinkling his brow and bringing a hand back up to his head. "I thought I dreamed about Dad."

Dean forced his voice to be light. "Must've been one hell of a nightmare for you, then." Maybe Sam didn't remember—it would cut down on the questions, at least, until someone could give them a damn answer.

"Huh." He blinked in pain, or maybe confusion, then turned to watch the road pass outside his window.

XXXXX

"Stay in the car," Dean ordered when he'd spotted Sam's dormitory. "I mean it, Sam."

Not waiting for an answer, he put the Impala in park and took off, slipping into the building behind a group of entering kids and taking the stairs two at a time.

With a start, he caught a glimpse of Sam's girlfriend just as he reached the second floor. The hallway was otherwise empty, and she was carrying a thin stack of papers. "Hey—Jessica!" he called, and she turned, startled.

"Dean? What are you doing here?" Her tone became accusing. "You said you'd stay with..."

"Sam's in the car," Dean said quickly.

"_What_? Are you crazy? What did you do, break him out of the hospital? He could be..."

"Jessica, I can't really explain..." Now that he was here, it felt a little stupid. _I took my brother from the hospital and was going to drive him hours away but turned around and then left him in the car because he was worried about his girlfriend._ _Yeah, 'crazy' sounds about right._ "Look," he tried. "He's been freaking out about you..."

"He's not thinking straight!" Jess returned, furious. "And neither are you. Were you even thinking at all? Don't answer that," she added, pulling a keychain from her purse and digging deeper until she'd grabbed another key. "I'm going to drop these off for him, and then I'll drive him back myself."

She turned to Sam's room and turned the key in the lock as she spoke, pushing the door open and hit the light switch hard.

Light filled the room. Then it flickered once and died.

_Shit_, Dean thought.

"Shit," Jess muttered, startling and tripping over the rug at the threshold. The stack of papers fluttered messily to the floor.

"Jessica..." Dean reached back, wrapping a hand around the gun tucked in the waistband of his jeans. "This is important. You don't understand..."

"You're right, I_don't_ understand," she shot back, scooping the papers back up, her angry movements leaving a corner of the rug lifted. "I thought you were..." Her eyes moved to something behind him. "Sam?"

Dean whipped around to see Sam coming up the stairs, still looking ragged and breathing hard, but standing straight.

"Goddammit, Sam, I said to _wait_—"

And then Jess screamed.

Dean glanced down to see a scuffed and broken line of salt under the rug.

Instinct taking over, he threw himself inside the door and found Jessica pinned against the wall.

"_Jess!_"

Dean barely had time to see Sam come barreling in behind him before feeling himself slam hard into the plaster inches away from Jessica. Winded, gasping for breath, his eyes widened as a column of fire rose from the center of the floor.

Sam wasn't the only one who used to have nightmares about fire.

The fire alarm rang.

Voices sounded in the hallway. The door slammed shut.

"Get out of here," he choked out as smoke began curling toward him. "Sam, get _out_..."

Sam turned his gaze to Dean, and suddenly, there was no trace of pain in his eyes. His stride steady and certain, the youngest Winchester stepped between the wall and the swirling fire, one arm flung out in front of Jessica and the other in front of Dean.

"You...fucking..._idiot_..." Dean spat out against the pressure holding him in place. Sam didn't even twitch. Dean wasn't sure he'd even heard. He was yelling something, though, the cadence familiar, strong, and forceful.

"...omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio, infernalis adversii, omnis legio, omnis congregatio et secta diabolica..."

A hissing issued from the pillar of flame. _ "Samuel Winchester..."_

Only a slight hesitation in Sam's recitation told Dean he'd heard it. "...Vade, draco maledicte, inventor et magister fallaciae, hostis humanae salutis. Humiliare sub potenti manu dei..."

A screech sounded as the flames flared higher, and Dean thought his skin would burn from the heat. His eyes watered, held open against his will, and he thought he caught a glimpse of a figure standing in the flames.

"_Stop,"_ came the voice again, and Sam was flung aside to crash against the desk.

Dean forgot to breathe as the fire flared higher yet, scorching the ceiling and moving toward them. Jessica whimpered.

"No," Sam coughed, stirring. "_No!_"

Just as the tongues of flame would have reached them, a dresser wobbled and fell with a crash onto its side, catching fire immediately but temporarily blocking Dean and Jess.

Helplessly watching the dresser smolder, Dean saw Sam crumpled in the corner, and the spreading fire moved toward him, instead.

_Sammy..._

But the flames only licked briefly at Sam's face before pulling away. Dean thought he heard another whisper, too soft to hear over the fire alarm and the crackling flames...

And then he dropped to the ground in a heap, Jessica landing partially on top of him.

For an instant, he remained there, gasping, not quite believing...

Then the spreading flame caught his sleeve, and he ripped off his jacket, standing and dragging Jessica to her feet as he did. Edging past the dresser, he threw her unceremoniously toward the door. "Go! Go!"

Sam was on all fours and struggling to regain his feet. Dean bent just enough to hook one arm under Sam's and another around his wait and pulled him the rest of the way up, half supporting and half carrying him.

Jessica was still hovering in the hallway when they staggered out. "What're you still doing here?" he shouted.

"Too many people at the main door; back exit's this way! Come on!"

Dean made a note to compliment Sam on his taste in women as they fled down the stairs.

XXXXX

The sprinklers came on just as they reached the ground floor and stumbled out onto the lawn._There's useful for you._

Still following Jessica, Dean manhandled Sam toward a less crowded area, sparing a glance back at the evacuated building.

"I'm fine," Sam complained, pulling away.

"Like hell," Dean barked back. "You coulda been killed! Next time I tell you to stay put and you don't fucking _stay_, I'll kill you..."

Jessica let out a high-pitched giggle.

"What am I, your dog? You can't order me to 'stay' when my girlfriend is about to walk into..." He cut himself off with a glance toward her, then, to Dean, "Like you were doing so great before I got there."

"That's not the point."

"No? And Jess? I should have left her there?"

"I thought the fire would spread more," she spoke up, her tone odd. "Weird."

Dean looked back. Sure enough, smoke continued to billow out, but, even as he watched, a few feeble sparks flickered and began to fade.

That couldn't be it. No fucking way it was over just like that. The other fire, the one he barely remembered from nearly twenty years before, had taken the whole house and almost spread to the neighboring ones.

He slid his eyes toward Sam to see what he was thinking and found him looking back.

"The room was too well protected," Sam said, calmly now, staring hard at Dean. "It only got in at all because the salt barrier was breeched. The wards and the partial exorcism must have been enough to chase it away."

It wasn't unreasonable, but the explanation felt...off. Sam was too composed for someone who'd threatened to dive out of the car minutes before. A slight narrowing of Sam's eyes, though, had Dean nodding. "Yeah. That must be it."

_Man, we're so going to have a talk, little brother. As soon as we get out of here._

Speaking of which...

Jessica turned back to them and placed a hand on Sam's chest. "What's going on?" The question was tremulous but laced with hints of steel.

Sam shifted. He threw a _help me_ look at Dean, who took pity and stepped in. "I was going to bring Sam to this other doctor in Nevada we're more familiar with, so I came to grab some clothes and things from his room. Hey," he added as an afterthought, tossing in his most charming smile, "guess it's a good thing I happened to..."

"Bull," she snarled. "An hour ago, Sam was out cold, and don't think I've forgotten the excuse you gave me when you found me upstairs. You_knew_." She glared at him. Not at Sam, he noticed, even though it was completely Sam's fault. "How? Tell me the truth."

_Uh..._ "Well. This is awkward," he said with a nervous chuckle and a meaningful_say-something-or-I'll-kill-you_ look at his brother.

This time, Sam picked it up. "I dreamed about it, Jess," he said, making an abortive move to catch her wrist when she stepped away.

Her face went through an impressive range of expressions before settling on wary concern. "You've been having a lot of dreams, Sam," she told him carefully.

"Well, this one came true, didn't it," Dean broke in. He was sympathetic—really, he was—but the tension of these past few weeks had been tiring. He could still feel the heat at his back as he carried his baby brother out of the fire; he wasn't even sure which fire. "What do you want us to say?"

Her eyes still held some skepticism as she looked from one to the other, but Dean knew that the easiest people to convince were the ones who'd just found out about the supernatural: not knowledgeable enough to question and willing to believe almost anything. "You're saying...Sam's_psychic_?"

"No, he's not psychic," Dean answered with a scoff, more reacting to the idea than thinking it through, because 'psychic' sounded to him like a quack woman wearing spangles and gazing into crystal balls. It was the first time anyone had used that word since this whole thing had started _(only this fucking morning)_; it was the first time he'd had to run the idea through his head. "Well, actually..."

Sam gave him an apprehensive look. "We don't know _what_ I am."

The fear that rose in Dean was quickly quenched by an equally intense anger. "Shut up, Sam. You're my brother, that's what you are; stop seeing things that aren't there. Aren't you the one who always wants to be normal?"

"Aren't you the one who told me I'm not?"

However much Sam denied it, he was just as quick to turn to irritation and sharp words as a cover.

"So I'm guessing this has never happened before," Jess said in a small voice.

"It's kind of a new development," Dean agreed, then did a double take when Sam looked away. "Sam?"

Sam didn't meet their eyes. "It's happened before." Dean felt his eyebrows climb. "The night before the shapeshifter. I just...I didn't realize it, then."

Dean gaped at him disbelievingly. "And you didn't think this would've been worth mentioning?" Sam didn't answer.

Sirens shrieked, approaching from a few blocks away. No one looked up.

"That's why you left the hospital," Jess pieced together. "Because this is something...not something the doctors can deal with."

It wasn't a question, but Dean answered anyway. "Pretty much."

Sam shook his head, but not in disagreement. "I don't really understand, but I'm better now. I just kept seeing...you. Burning. It was like...it got better once I was doing something about it. Like I would have gone mad otherwise."

Remembering the panicked struggle in the car, Dean could believe it.

"But then you can..." She gestured toward the dormitory, then dropped her hand. "Well, not there, obviously, but they'll find somewhere for you to stay if your room's past repair. Right?"

Dean watched Sam out of the corner of his eye and felt his stomach drop. _So close. We could've been a team again_.

It wasn't just that, he told himself. Wasn't just selfish. It was for Sam's own good, too. "I don't know if..."

The expression on Sam's face was enough to cut Dean off. Full of regret, yeah, but worse than that—resigned. How a man might look when he was dying.

In a way, he guessed part of Sam had started to die the minute he'd had the first dream. Or vision, or whatever it was.

It cut deep to see Sam's hatred of the idea of life with Dean. It would have been easier just to stay away, even knowing how happy Sam was without him.

"Jess," Sam said finally. His voice had fallen to the register he always used to comfort victims, but it was overlaid with a hoarseness that betrayed true sorrow. "Something's happening. Maybe it's something bigger than me...but this is...I think _this_ could be what I've—what _we've_—spent our lives waiting for. Whatever's going on, Dean and I...we have to see it through."

Jessica's eyes were starting to fill, and she held her hand out for him again. This time, Sam caught it in both of his.

Dean shuffled awkwardly.

"Baby, you've worked so hard for this."

Sam exhaled shakily. "You saw what happened just now. Something's coming—it'll be safer if I'm not here."

"No, Sam, you don't have to give up your education—your _future_—for us. We'll be more careful from now on..."

"It's not safe for me, either, Jess. If the premonitions start again... There's someone who knows about these kinds of things. That's where we're going, now." Sam looked, out of habit, to Dean, who nodded to confirm.

She was quiet for a while. Finally, she sighed and nodded, leaning forward to rest her forehead against Sam's chest. "You're right. I know you're right. I just...I don't..." Her voice hitched, and when she continued, Dean was reminded that she'd just barely avoided death, too. "What do I do now? What do we do?"

Clearing his throat, Dean forcibly erased all uncertainty. "You take precautions." He knew that wasn't what she meant, but it had to be said, anyway. "Now, I don't think it was after you, but it never hurts to be careful. Ward your room—"

"I don't know how," she protested. "Or how to learn."

"Then you lay down salt," he insisted, "at every entrance. It should be enough." He glanced at Sam, who was looking like a kicked puppy and obviously wasn't going to be helpful here. "We'll stay in touch, help you find what you need to stay safe."

She laughed hollowly. "I don't think I'll ever feel safe again."

Her words were familiar, something uttered by many of the people they'd saved. The pain that flashed across Sam's face--

_("We grew up being scared, Dean. All the time.")_

--was worse.

"Jessica." Dean waited until she turned and acknowledged him. "This demon...it's not targeting you. You're not in any more danger than you were before. You just know more now. And I know it doesn't feel like it, but I promise you're safer for it."

She took a breath and looked down. Nodded.

They made a ridiculous scene. Sam still stood in too-short, singed hospital scrubs; Jessica's curls were loose and tangled.

And a fire had started in Sam's room an hour after he went missing from the hospital on campus.

The sirens were growing louder.

Shit. They had to go.

"Sammy..."

"Give us a minute, Dean?"

Dean hesitated, then, caught in his brother's pleading gaze, said, "Okay. Fine. Meet me back at the car. We don't have much time before people start asking questions."

He'd taken a few steps way when Jessica called, "Dean, wait. You'll..." She sighed. "Take care of each other. Please."

_Take care of Sam_, he heard.

Cocking his eyebrow at her, he answered, "You don't have to ask."

XXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_Sam nodded slowly. "It was too easy."_

"_The question is: why? You know something else, don't you. What else did it say to you?"_


	8. Chapter 8

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen.

Notes: This is the shortest chapter yet, so I thought I'd post it before moving on to bigger, meatier stuff.

I want to mention that this story is primarily an exploration—of the Winchesters' relationships with each other and with the rest of the world; of the way people change and develop and respond, especially when I mess with the order of canon events; of the world around our two boys; and of that odd little society of people we refer to as "hunters." That's not to say there's no plot—I've definitely got stuff up my sleeve. Just please keep in mind that some chapters are inevitably going to be more action-packed while others are paced more slowly.

That's it—I had particularly fun with the Sam-Dean exchanges in this chapter, so I hope you enjoy them, too!

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_"I don't know... It just feels like something's starting." _

_("Home") _

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"Will you stop that?"

"What?"

Sam huffed. "Stop looking at me like that."

"I'm not looking at you like anything."

"You're gonna crash the car if you don't pay attention."

"I know how to drive, Sammy."

"Just...watch the road."

"Yeah, and you just keep your skirt on."

Dean lasted a whole two minutes. He turned his head furtively to see Sam staring out the passenger side window.

He jumped when Sam whipped back around to catch him. "Dude—enough!"

"What the hell—you're like an animal lying in wait."

"What's your problem?"

_("...I would have gone mad...")_

"Nothin'," Dean lied, berating himself when he involuntarily glanced over again.

"Dean!"

"Sammy!" he mocked.

"I swear, man, I'm going insane here."

"You're not gonna go insane." As soon as the words were out, he realized they were the wrong ones.

Sam was the one staring now. "_That's_ what this is? You think I've lost it."

"I said you're not fucking insane, Sam." Determinedly keeping his gaze fixed on the bumper of the car in front of him, he commented, "You look tired, that's all."

"Yeah, well, it's been a long day. A long _week_. Or weeks. I don't even know anymore." He didn't close his eyes, though, or stretch out the way he did whenever he slept sitting in the car.

It didn't take long before Dean felt restless in the silence; usually he'd have some music blasting. He left it quiet now, because he'd decided to try being a little more sensitive to Sam for now. And because he'd left his tapes in Dad's truck, so, you know.

"You okay?" he asked reluctantly.

"Fine."

Hey, he'd tried.

It might be painfully obvious that Sam wasn't anywhere _near_ fine about any of this, but it wasn't Dean's business to push it. Not yet, anyway. Besides, there were more urgent matters to think about.

"So what was that about, back there?" he asked.

Sam scowled. "What Jess and I say to each other is personal, Dean."

"That's not what I meant, smartass. I don't need to hear the details of my little brother's love life."

"That's never stopped you before from harassing me about every girl I went out with."

Dean smirked. "True. But hey, it's not like I didn't pass on my experience to you."

Sam looked disgusted. "In more detail than I ever wanted. You scarred me for life."

"Ah, lighten up. I didn't scar you for life. And anyway, chicks dig scars. It got you laid with, what's her name, Alice something, didn't it?"

"Allison Bayer," he corrected with an eye roll, though his lips were twitching. "And I _met_ her when she was volunteering at the nurse's office. The gym teacher sent me there because the stitches in my arm ripped open."

"I remember that. That was when you tried to fly out of a tree."

"I wasn't trying to fl—you snuck up behind me and screamed in my ear, you ass."

Oh yeah. Whoops. Dean couldn't hold back a chuckle, though. "That was awesome. You shoulda seen your face."

It wasn't until Sam laughed with him—really, actually _laughed_—that Dean realized how much he'd missed it.

"You're a jerk."

"Bitch, bitch, bitch."

How much he'd missed _this_.

He hated having to ruin the moment. Sam, though, control freak that he was, took the matter out of his hands entirely. He cleared his throat, ducking his head. "So. Back there. The demon."

Dean snorted. "Yeah, that about sums it up. Articulate, aren't you?" When Sam didn't elaborate, he prodded, "There was something you didn't want to say in front of your...in front of Jessica."

Sam nodded slowly. "It was too easy."

"You weren't the one glued to a friggin' wall," Dean pointed out. "But, yeah, okay," he conceded. "Were you serious about the wards around the room?"

"I have—_had_—protective runes on all four walls, if that's what you're asking. They probably helped, weakened it a little. But if it could get in despite all of that _and_ still have enough power for that pyrotechnics display..."

"It could've done a lot more," Dean finished grimly.

"Exactly. And the way it all ended... Honestly, I think the fire was basically out by the time the fire department got there. I mean, the way demons mess with electronics..."

"The sprinklers wouldn't even have started," Dean guessed. "Or the alarms. It was a half-assed effort, and it was already completely gone by the time we got out." He drummed his fingers on the wheel in thought. "We're sure it's the demon? I mean, _the_ demon?"

"It knew my name, Dean. It was waiting for me." Dean couldn't be sure if the strain in Sam's voice was hiding fear or something else. "And it was like I'd felt it before. Like the dreams I used to have about the night Mom died. I don't know, I can't explain it."

He didn't have to. Dean knew the feeling. "So, it came and then just...went away."

"Yeah. On its own, apparently."

"Then the question is: why?" Sam's white-knuckled grip on the edge of his eat confirmed what Dean had suspected. "You know something else, don't you. What else did it say to you?"

"You didn't hear?''

"I was a little distracted by a falling dresser, which, by the way, was a pathetic example of the quality of Stanford furniture considering how much people pay to go there—"

"Saved your ass."

"I'll express my gratitude to it later, if you don't mind. Now stop stalling."

Sam sighed. "Not yet. Not ready."

"I don't give a rat's ass whether or not you think you're ready—"

"No, that's what it said," Sam interrupted. "It said... _'Not yet. Not ready.'_"

Huh.

Dean didn't notice pressing harder on the gas pedal until Sam said, "If you go any faster you might get airborne."

He forced himself to relax and retorted, "If you squeeze the leather any harder you'll rip the upholstery." Sam started and guiltily opened his hands.

Something was bothering Dean. Well, okay, a lot was bothering him.

"Why didn't you tell us before that you were having visions?" he asked, rolling the word around his on tongue. _Visions_...Nah, that didn't sound crazy at all.

"It only happened once."

"Hey, you know, that's funny. You say that like you think it's a valid fucking excuse."

"It just never came up. I thought it wasn't important."

"That's crap, Sam. You have a dream about a shapeshifter and then happen kill one the next day, how is that 'not important' in any way? 'Never came up,' " he scoffed. "Don't try to tell me it slipped your mind."

Sam still wasn't looking at him, but the defenses came up. "Well, Dad wasn't exactly interested in hearing it."

"Yeah, I think he would've been pretty fucking interested in..."

"I tried to tell him, Dean! Hell, _he_ was the one who kept cutting me off, saying I was _confused_ and didn't know what holy water in action looked like!"

"That was because you should know better than to listen to the monsters we fight."

"Will you listen to _me_ for a second?" Sam burst out in frustration. "I don't think it was lying at all! Everything it told me—it's all been true so far. I mean, the stuff about Dad and...and you—" Here, Sam looked away again— "I know it was just trying to dig up dirt, and it wasn't anything I didn't know. But about Mom? And the demon? That's all panned out, hasn't it?"

Dean nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, it did. Dad's been talking to Bobby, Caleb, Jim, some guy named Isaac...everyone who knows anything about demons. He...uh, he hasn't said much to me, but...it's definitely a demon. Sure looked like one in your room back there." He paused. "You tryin' to change the subject, here?"

"No, no. The shapeshifter talked about visions, too. It knew..." Sam grimaced. "I didn't even make the connection until it mentioned dreams. That was how I managed to kill it—it reminded me of the dream I had. Dean..." Sam swallowed, looking at him sideways with his eyes half hidden under his hair.

"What?"

"The shifter said...that the demon's been watching me. That Mom died that night because it was coming for me. And with these visions now... It's not natural."

"Sam..."

"No, Dean, you know better than anyone—you spend your life killing the supernatural." Dean's turned to glare at Sam's tone. As if Dean would ever hunt his own brother.

"You trying to imply something here?"

"Just that you were right. It's some freaky... I don't know what. But what if it's worse than that? What if the demon knows there's something wrong with me, and that's why Mom..."

"There's nothing _wrong_ with you, Sam! Just...just hold on a minute, here. We don't even know what this is. The shapeshifter was working with for the demon, somehow, fine. It doesn't mean your frea—your visions are connected. Maybe—_maybe_—it wasn't lying. Doesn't mean we should trust it." He remembered something else. "So the holy water—you think that was because of demonic influence? You said the water worked on it."

Sam shifted. "It works on me, too. What if..."

Dean almost drove the car off the road. "Christo," he said, and his brother's face settled into the pissed off, exasperated one he saved just for Dean. "See?"

"I know I'm not _possessed_, moron. But I've been thinking...I can tell the difference between normal water and water that's been blessed—it feels different to me. I didn't even realize before what it might mean, but..."

Dean hadn't either, until just then, but it wouldn't do any good to say it. "It doesn't mean anything. You've got that whole ESP thing going on now—"

"It's not _ESP_, Dean, there's a difference between—"

"Yeah, yeah, Professor. The point is, maybe you're more...sensitive to stuff like this." He dragged out a smirk. "You've always been the sensitive one, Samantha."

"Screw you." A moment later, he added, "You really think so?"

_Fuck if I know_.

"'Course I do." Sam still looked uncertain. "Come on, Sam. These visions...so far they've all been good."

"Excuse me?" His voice rose. "You think it's _good_ watching—"

"Jesus, untwist your panties, will you? 'Good' as in it's saved people."

"...Yeah. I guess so."

Mostly joking but a little apprehensive of the answer, he asked, "So it's just visions, right? Anything else you wanna tell me?"

Sam turned, and the ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "I know how much you love surprises."

Not an answer, but enough for Dean. Sam was good at evasion, but he was crap at making jokes to hide behind.

Sam yawned, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand in a way that reminded Dean of how he'd looked as a grumpy eight-year-old. Which was a little ridiculous and a lot hilarious in a guy who was well over six feet.

"Come on, Sleepy. Naptime."

"Nah, I'm good."

"Seriously, you look like shit."

"Nice."

"Fine, suit yourself."

Sam wasn't done yet—Dean could see it in the way he looked up once in a while, taking a breath and then saying nothing. "What?" he finally asked.

"Where's Dad?" Sam bit his lip. "I know he didn't come with you. I...I think I remember a dream about him, but I'm not even sure anymore whether it was a dream or a..." He waved his hand vaguely. "You said he told you about Joshua, though, right? So you've talked to him?"

"I called him," Dean said. Sam waited. "He was at Joshua's; he told Josh to call me."

Sam looked suspicious now. "Wait, you didn't actually talk to Dad?"

"Josh is a friend. And he had the password."

"The password..." Sam's eyebrows lifted high. "The 'no fire' password?"

"That's the one." Dean wasn't even going to try to ignore the irony in that now.

"But...why weren't you with him, then?" He frowned. "And, wait a minute...if we're...what's he even _driving_?"

Dean felt his eyes light up in genuine joy. "Ah, Sammy. The Impala's all mine now. Dad gave her to me." Sam's mouth fell open. "Catching flies?"

He snapped his mouth shut. "So Dad's...oh. He's driving that truck Bobby's been trying to get rid of?"

"Yep. He finally got it fixed up." He looked over to see Sam fingering the dash, a tiny smile playing over his lips. "You know you love her. He loves you, baby," he reassured the car.

Sam huffed in amusement. "I'm a little disturbed by the depth of your attachment." Then he sobered. "Was Dad hunting alone?"

Dean glanced at him. "Yeah, we were on separate hunts."

"He let _you_ hunt alone?"

Dean gave him an insulted look. "Dude. I'm twenty-three. So anyway... You seriously don't remember this?"

"Should I? Oh, wait, I think I remember you telling me about it." Dean frowned, knowing full well he'd done no such thing. "About the guy who suffocated in his car, right? And his brother getting decapitated by a falling window."

Holy crap. And just...holy _freaking_ crap.

"Wh—no, Sam, I've never—what the fuck, man? Where are you even getting that?"

"Uh," came the uncertain answer. "I don't know...I guess that must have been a dream, then."

That was a pretty fucking detailed—and _grisly­_—dream, even for Sam. Seriously, a _window_? Who thought of shit like that?

"Um," Dean managed.

"Well, then why'd you say I should remember about the hunt you were on?"

"Just something you said in the hospital. You had a vision about us, I think."

Taken aback, looking more than a little disturbed, Sam only shook his head.

"Well, Dad got a tip from someone..."

"What kind of tip? From who?"

"I don't know, Sam! He didn't tell me. Sent me off to San Jose after a Black Dog."

"There's no Black Dog in San Jose."

Sharply, Dean asked, "How'd you know that?" Maybe Sam did remember after all.

After a pause, Sam said slowly, "'Cause it's San Jose. Come on, those spirits are ancient. And non-migratory. If there were a Black Dog haunting there, we'd have heard of sightings before now. Why?"

Dean shook his head, not sure if he'd ever been kept this off balance. "Never mind. And yeah, it was a false rumor. The only supernatural thing in that area was the Winchester Mystery House."

"You realize that one's a hoax, right?"

Dean sighed unhappily. "I know. I even swung by to check it out—how awesome would it have been for a Winchester to clear out the damn Winchester House?"

"Yeah, I know what you mean. After the shapeshifter incident, that was one of the first haunted houses Jess asked me about." He looked away, the partial smile dying away. "So Dad's missing."

The car hummed angrily under him. "It hasn't been that long. Let's not jump to conclusions yet."

Sam nodded, but still pressed, "Why hasn't he called? Have you tried again?"

"Yes, I fucking tried, Sam, while you were exchanging vows of undying love with your girlfriend. I don't know, alright?" He knew that was a bit harsh when Sam flinched at the thought of the life he'd thrown away. _The second life he's thrown away—except he didn't have a choice in this one_. "Look, he must've seen Joshua sometime yesterday. Or today, I mean." Talk about a long fucking day. "Let's just...hold off on everything until we get a chance to talk to Josh. Get some shut-eye until then," he suggested. Sam looked out the window and didn't answer.

A few minutes passed before he tried again. "We're still four hours away, dude. I promise I'll wake you if I see any unicorns. I know how much you've always wanted to meet one."

"Unicorns are attracted to the virginal and virtuous. I don't think you'll be seeing one."

Dean raised an eyebrow. "I'm...not even sure how to respond to that. And I'm virtuous." Sam only snorted in reply. "Sam, why are you being an ass about sleeping? You got something to prove?"

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe it's because the last time I went to sleep, I woke up the hospital."

_Point_. "You can't stay awake forever. Besides, maybe it was just that one time. Maybe it's over now."

"It's not over." Sam hunched down further in the seat and wrapped a hand stiffly around the door handle. "I can still feel it...like it's _pushing_ at me. Like...like it'll drown me if I let it, and something's holding it back, but if it breaks again, the way it did before, Dean, I don't know, man, I don't..."

"Whoa, okay. I get it. It's...I get it." Sam's hand was clenched tight on the car door, but Dean saw the faint tremors running through it. He wasn't sure whether it was from fear or shock or exhaustion or even just the aftermath of an adrenaline rush. "But I'm not driving four hours with you sulking."

"Well, what do you want me to do?"

"Talk."

The wary look was back in Sam's face. "About what?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "Anything. God. I'm _bored_."

Sam finally curved the corners of his lips upward in a smirk. "Anything? Fine—you got it. So..."

When Dean realized that Sam was starting a whole fucking lecture about how to deal with vengeful spirits (and showing signs of transitioning to werewolves and other corporeal creatures), he cheerfully tuned out the drone and settled in for a long drive, carefully not thinking about what was going on with his little brother.

A while later, Sam broke off to say incredulously, "Dude. You're humming Metallica?"

He shrugged, staring determinedly at the dark road. "Calms me down."

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_From the next chapter: _

_Joshua stood slowly, hands out to the side. "You're used to thinking of everything unusual as evil, but Dean, with everything going on with your brother, you're going to have to rethink that." A muscle in Dean's jaw jumped. "Why do you think your father sent you to me? I can _help_." _


	9. Chapter 9

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen.

Notes: Once again, OCs may play an important plot role, and I even have mini-backstories for some of them in my head—but they are here to move the Sam&Dean plot along. Don't worry; they won't be taking over the story.

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"_This is Dad's single most valuable possession...And he's passed it on to us."_

_("Wendigo")_

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Sam remembered thinking, when he was younger, that Joshua Smithley spent so much time doing business—whether dealing in guns or in knowledge—that he practically lived in the little store he owned. As it turned out, the man actually did live there. There was no other reason that they would be pulling up to Smithley Arms at one in the morning.

Dean had lasted through his recitation of lore and rituals a lot longer than expected. Then again, he probably hadn't been listening—he knew it all, and the parts he didn't know he wasn't all that interested in. It had taken a whole forty minutes (he'd just barely gotten started on the differences between Catholic sacraments and the ones they more commonly used) for Dean to force a subject change. Sam knew it was the closest Dean would come to saying _I'm worried about you_, so he appreciated how long it had lasted.

Sam knew his brother was tired, as well—he'd been driving for hours and had just finished a hunt, even if it had turned out to be a bust. So he told himself that his repeated attempts to start a conversation during the last hour were for Dean as much as for himself.

It didn't help the pounding in the back of his head go away, though he imagined that it helped hold it at bay. The pain wasn't sharp, anymore—just steady, dull, pulsating. Sometimes he thought he saw a flash of something, and while he knew now it wasn't a migraine aura, he wasn't sure he wanted to know what it really was. He didn't think Dean had noticed yet.

God, he was _tired_.

"Sam. We're here," Dean said softly as he parked at the side of the road.

It would have taken too much effort to say, _Yeah, I can see that_, so he just nodded, opened his door, and stepped out.

"Hold up," Dean warned, his voice still low, looking around the dark street. "You armed?"

Sam almost said 'yes,' but his hand hit only skin and fabric when he reached back instinctively under a borrowed sweater. "Uh, no. Everything was in my room back at Stanford."

"There's a piece under your seat."

"Dean, we're walking into a store filled with guns. And you know Joshua—we both do."

"Still no reason not to be ready," Dean told him. "Don't argue with me on this."

Shaking his head, Sam ducked back down to pull the pistol out, automatically checking to see that it was loaded.

He'd never thought a time would come when he'd miss his weapons. Steve had never been able to understand that they were more than just objectionable but necessary tools, and Sam sighed. However lucky he'd been for the friends he'd found, he hadn't really fit in even at Stanford. That duffel bag wasn't just a bag with guns and blades; they were the Beretta Dad had given him after his first hunt, the sawed-off he'd made when he was sixteen, the hunting knife he'd always carried. The bag had been his whole life, collected into a sack of canvas.

And then there was his lock picking set, he thought ruefully when they stopped in front of the door. Not that it was usually a good idea to sneak into a hunter's house in the middle of the night, but Sam wasn't clear on the proper protocol.

Dean didn't have those qualms. He took another look to make sure no one was behind him, then banged—hard—on the door. Sam rolled his eyes.

"Subtle."

"Bite me."

Still, both moved in synchrony when soft footsteps sounded on the other side, each sliding away to flank the door.

They relaxed when the door opened to show Joshua Smithley. "Dean," he acknowledged, and his eyes widened in surprise when he saw Sam. "Little Sammy? You're looking better than I'd expected."

"You can get a better look inside," Dean interrupted, tense in the surrounding darkness.

"Of course, you're right. Come in."

Dean went in first and gave the room a once-over before stepping fully to allow Sam to pass. "Move it, little Sammy," he repeated, the delight in his eyes telling Sam he wouldn't be forgetting that one for a while.

Sam kicked him in the shin as he went in.

The back room was barely more spacious than the dorm room he shared—had shared—with Steve, although it looked like there was another room beyond that still. In the light that illuminated the living area, Sam studied Joshua, who put three beers on a small, round table and waved at them to sit. He didn't mention that he was technically still too young to drink—the drinking age was a little blurry with Dean as both big brother and primary guardian.

The last time he'd been here, Sam had been twelve. He'd thought at first glance that Joshua was old, owing to his familiarity with John and the business, but had revised the estimate upon seeing Dean's opinion of the man. Dean could admire and even idolize men in their dad's generation, but, to an almost-seventeen-year-old Dean, _cool_ was reserved for those closer to his age. And Joshua had had that self-possessed poise that reminded Sam of a teacher without the condescending air that the older hunters adopted around teenagers.

Now, at nineteen, Sam guessed Joshua was in his forties, most likely, which made him definitely younger than their father. Oddly, this was reassuring: Dad didn't trust just anyone, and for him to think so highly of someone so young, Joshua must be damn good.

Joshua had been watching him, too. "Wow," he said. "I haven't seen you since you were—"

"—little Sammy?" Dean suggested. Sam scowled at him.

"Suppose that isn't such a good nickname anymore," Joshua said with a small laugh. "How've you boys been?"

"Good," Dean lied easily, uncapping his bottle and leaning back. "Keeping busy. How's the business going, Josh?" Sam didn't bother with his beer—he could hold his alcohol fine, whatever his brother claimed, but he wasn't going to try it after going more than a day without anything to eat.

His brother was good, there was no doubt about that—good enough to fool just about anyone with the ease he exuded. Even Sam usually couldn't distinguish any tells that gave away Dean's guardedness in these situations, besides knowing, just from experience, that he acted this way around other hunters. There was a mixture of their dad's sharpness and his own casual cockiness that made him seem more relaxed and approachable than their dad was. Bobby Singer and Pastor Jim were exceptions to Dean's deceptive distance, and usually Joshua would be, too, but the situation was screwed up enough to warrant a _'better safe than sorry.'_

What made Dean stick out like a sore thumb in normal society made other hunters willing to see him as the young, overconfident sonuvabitch he was—but that was someone they could share information and stories and camaraderie with. One of _them_.

Sam could mimic Dean well enough, but too many people saw through it too easily, even when he was fully awake and alert. Here, _he_ was the one who was out of place, so he reverted to his default: silent observation, taking cues from his brother.

Just then, Joshua looked over to him. "Sorry, Sammy, I don't mean to leave you feeling out of place."

Sam jumped, but when Dean raised his eyebrows at him in question, he shook his head and said, "It's Sam," covering a yawn. Fatigue was making his mind foggier than he would have liked.

To Joshua's credit, he looked a little embarrassed. "Ah, yeah, sorry about that. I know what it's like to have nicknames you hate."

"Really? Like what?" Dean asked, intrigued.

With a stern eye that reminded Sam of Bobby, he said, "None of your business, kid." Dean looked affronted at that. "That's not why you're here."

_Yeah, tell us that_, Sam thought. _Why exactly _are_ we here, again?_

"I know, I didn't give you much to go on," Joshua said, as if in response to Sam's thoughts. "You know, I have to admit, when your dad told me Sam was in the hospital, I was imagining a much worse situation."

Not knowing how to answer, Sam exchanged a look with Dean, who asked, "How much do you know?"

"You've been having visions," Joshua said bluntly, staring at Sam. "And they've been overwhelming you. They're too much for you to handle at once."

Sam nodded and rubbed his eyes tiredly, trying to focus his thoughts.

_And Dad...why was he here? Where had he gone?_

"Your dad came to me to restock." Sam squinted in surprise at the way Joshua always seemed to guess what he was thinking. "I've been helping him find that demon, and when he heard about you, he asked for my help." Joshua was still watching him but had shifted to include Dean. "I agreed; John Winchester's gotten me out of a few tight spots over the years. But I can't tell you where he is now."

Dean, for some reason, didn't seem to be as worried about that. "What about Sam? What the hell's going on with him?"

_Dad's missing!_ Sam wanted to say. _He knows something about the demon. We need to find him._

"No, you don't," Joshua told him.

Sam thought for a second that he must have spoken aloud by accident, but then Dean asked, confused, "What?"

Instantly, Sam was on his feet with a gun trained on Joshua. Dean was up, too, a split second later, but he lowered his pistol slightly and asked again, "Sam, what the..."

Ignoring him for now, Sam accused, "You've been reading my thoughts." Dean looked at him, taken aback. Sam was starting to rethink the fog that had been lying over his thoughts.

"I wondered how long it would take to sink in," Joshua answered mildly, looking far too unruffled. "To be fair, you're not familiar with all of this, and you're obviously not at a hundred percent. No offense. I promise I'm only trying to help you two."

His expression was earnest, and Sam readjusted his grip, unsure.

Dean's bafflement had worn off, and he growled, "Someone better explain what in hell's going on. Fast. What the hell, Josh?"

Sam agreed. He had had too much recent experience with things that pulled thoughts out of people's heads.

"I know you're probably still shaken from the shapeshifter you met a couple of weeks back," Joshua started, "But..."

"Stop doing that!" Sam shouted, feeling hysteria beginning to rise now. "Stop—what the hell are you?"

"I thought that would have been obvious. I'm a psychic—I hear people's thoughts."

Sam exchanged a look with Dean, who challenged, "Is that supposed be comforting? I mean, are you even human?"

Joshua stood slowly, hands out to the side. "You're used to thinking of everything unusual as evil, but Dean, with everything going on with your brother, you're going to have to rethink that." A muscle in Dean's jaw jumped. "Why do you think your father sent you to me? I can _help_. And Sam, how's your headache? It's been gone since you got here, right?"

Sam avoided Dean's angry _you-couldn't-have-told-me-this-earlier_ glare and let his gun drop a few inches. "Yeah," he admitted after a moment's consideration. "You're saying..."

"There are some herbs that can help to relieve the tension in your mind. That's your problem now, Sam. This ability's starting to open in you and you're fighting it so hard it's ripping your apart. In fact, I can give you some to take with you on the road..."

"Aw, hell no!" Dean exclaimed. "I'm not...burning sage and putting some smelly hippie shit in my baby."

Joshua lifted an eyebrow at him in amusement. "Take a sniff. You smell anything in my shop?" He paused, eyeing Dean's gun. "Come on, kid. You've known me for years. Have I ever given you any reason not to trust me?"

Dean's nostrils flared slightly, as if he were testing the air for anything remotely flowery over the stronger smell of metal and gunpowder. "Don't call me kid," he said petulantly in answer, but let his gun fall the rest of the way. Sam followed suit.

"Why don't we sit back down and finish our beer," Joshua suggested, following his own advice and looking up at them expectantly.

They exchanged a glance. Dean tilted his head at him. Sam shrugged. They both sat and laid their weapons on the table but kept them within arm's reach.

"So," Dean said finally, but Sam interrupted with,

"What were you talking about? 'Relieving tension'?"

"Sounds naughty," Dean commented.

Sam gave him a disgusted look, but Joshua, as always, seemed to find it funny. "My way of relieving tension won't give you chlamydia, I can tell you that. It helps just being around other psychics, first. Besides that, it's just some camphor, buchu leaves, saffron, simple things like that. Prepared right, and packaged right, they can have a real effect. Or you can drink an infusion; that works, too."

Sam looked over the man's shoulder and saw what looked like a gris-gris bag nestled in a corner. He narrowed his eyes. Dean was louder in his displeasure. "That's witchcraft," he said flatly. "Or Voodoo or something."

Joshua tilted his head to one side and shrugged. "Well, I guess, if you want to see it that way, it's a variant on that."

"I hate witches."

"Not all witchcraft is about selling your soul. It's like a spell, yes, but just using the natural properties of natural plants. It's no more devil-worship than laying salt. And it only affects people with some psychic ability."

Dean blinked. "Huh."

Sam wasn't convinced. "What's it doing to me?" His thoughts still weren't totally clear, and he wasn't sure how to separate sleep deprivation from Joshua's home remedies.

"It opens up psychic pathways. In your case, it's lessening the resistance you've been putting up against your power." Sam consciously fought down the childish urge to move his chair closer to Dean's. "That's why I've been hearing your thoughts so clearly. I try not to invade friends' privacy, but it's hard for me not to hear your thoughts when you're so open like this."

"Okay, that's it," Dean announced, pushing his chair back. "You can go ahead with your new-age psychic pathways, but I don't think this is a great idea..."

"It'll rip him apart," Joshua said again, to Dean this time, his voice firmer now. "This kind of power doesn't usually awaken in someone as young as your brother. It started with dreams, didn't it? Ones he couldn't remember, maybe, because he was trying so hard to shield himself from it that everything was blocked off. A few years from now, his mind might be able to accept it better. But if he doesn't learn to control it—or, at least, to deal with it—he might not get those few years."

Dean threw a frustrated glance at Sam and another at the gris-gris bag. "And your catnip for psychics? Sam and me, we don't do the potpourri thing."

Sam silently agreed. Their whole lives had been built around secrets. There was little more frightening than having mental resistance, to anything, broken down.

"Just for now," Joshua assured him. "To keep him—to keep _you_, Sam—sane until you've got a better grip on it. I'll try to keep away from your thoughts, if that helps."

Sam nervously clenched his fists under the table. "It's making me drowsy," he said, not sure whether he was protesting or just telling.

But Joshua chuckled at him. "That's not my herbs, Sam. That's you needing sleep." He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward, the gesture at once friendly and invading. "I'm not going to force you to stay. But if you can trust me, I swear I'll help you through this."

He swallowed and looked toward Dean, not liking the thought of having something he had to be helped through—to _'keep him sane,'_ Joshua said. Sitting here, now, he felt almost normal, but remembering the haze of exhaustion and pain and _fear _from the past days... _What do we do, Dean?_

Dean studied him and gave him a slight nod before asking Joshua, "I never knew you were...uh, psychic. My dad knows?" Digging again—wouldn't their dad have told them?

_Then again_, Sam thought, _who knows? How much did he ever tell us?_

"I'm not the only one he knows, either," Joshua answered. "There's a woman he used to go to, in Kansas. She's the one who told him about what's out there in the dark in the first place."

Sam wondered if he would have told his dad about his dreams earlier if he'd known psychics were _real_, and that his dad was friends with some. He wondered if it would have made any difference at all.

"Then why you?" Dean pressed. "Why not her, if he's so friendly with her?"

Joshua shrugged. "You really wanted to drive all the way out there?" Dean looked more disturbed at the idea than Sam could account for, but nodded once, conceding. "And, besides...Missouri Mosely—the woman in Kansas—is the more powerful psychic, but I deal with demons a lot more than she does. He was in the area when you called him. And...there's this." He stood and pulled something out of a drawer.

Sam stopped breathing and felt Dean freeze beside him.

"He left this with me." He dropped the leather-bound book on the table.

"That's..." Sam started, "...that's not his _journal_?"

Something was wrong. No way Dad would leave his journal here.

Dean reached for it slowly without a word.

"Asked me to give it to you," Joshua said, unperturbed. "He said you'd know what to do with it." When Dean's eyes snapped back to his face, he shrugged. "Maybe he left a message in there for you."

Dean opened the book and flipped through until a page caught his eye. He looked at Joshua for a long moment, then said, "We need to talk about this," he said, indicating Sam with his head. "In private."

"I understand," Joshua said, spreading his hands in front of him. "Let me know what you decide."

Dean didn't speak until they were inside the Impala. "Don't want him yanking thoughts out of your head," he explained curtly.

The only thing Sam could think to say was, "Dad never goes anywhere without his journal."

"I know." Dean was still staring at that page.

"Well, how do you think Joshua got a hold of it?"

"I think Dad left it with him. For us."

"What? You think he actually..." Dean tossed the book onto his lap, and Sam trailed off as the writing registered.

DEAN

38-118

_Dean. Not Sam_.

He realized the thought was unreasonable as soon as it formed and shook it off quickly.

"Could he have faked it?"

"No way—look at the way that corner's folded down—"

"Yeah, I see it." Dad's handwriting, Dad's codes upon codes upon codes.

"Maps—" Dean said, but Sam had already reached into the glove compartment. As he looked for the right one, he saw Dean holding his cell phone to his ear.

"Who the hell're you calling now?"

"Bobby," he said tersely. "Just look up the damn coord— Bobby? It's Dean Wincheter."

Sam listened to the one-sided conversation as he opened the map. "I know what time it...yeah, sorry about that, but we really need to ask...no, not Dad, Sammy's with me...uh huh. Listen, you know a lot of hunters, right? What do you know about Joshua Smithley? I _know_, Bobby, just humor me, okay..."

It didn't take him long to find the place on the map, and he'd paged through some of Dad's journal by the time Dean said, "Alright. Call me if you hear from Dad, will you? Tha—" He pulled the phone a few inches away from his ear and grimaced; Sam could hear Bobby Singer's voice bellowing through. He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, next time I wake you up in the middle of the night I'll let you shoot me...Thanks, Bobby."

Dean snapped the phone shut and said, "Bobby says Josh is on the straight and narrow." He looked like he wanted to believe it.

"Does he know about...?"

"The Zelda Rubenstein thing? Looks like we were the only ones not in on the secret. Yeah, he's the real deal." Gesturing at the journal, he asked, "So, where's Dad want us to go?"

"Here," Sam said. "The coordinates point Hawthorne, Nevada. Practically right where we're sitting."

Dean gave the short laugh that meant he was nervous and didn't want it to show. "Well, Cassandra, not hard to figure out what that means."

Sam tightened his grip on the map. "Joshua's in Dad's journal, too, as one of the people he contacted about a demon at one point or another." He hesitated. "We need to find out more about that demon; we need to find Dad," he said, but heard the uncertainty in his own voice. "But if Joshua knows something about—maybe even _this_ demon in particular—"

"Hey, slow down there, Sammy. One thing at a time. Dad wants us _here_."

Sam knew he was right, but part of him couldn't help resenting this—the orders with no reason, no explanation...it didn't make sense.

_Nothing about this makes sense_.

"You can't tell me you're not wondering too, Dean. Whatever's going on—it's gotten personal." Jess and Dean's bodies, pinned against the wall, were still imprinted in his mind, and he winced at the image.

Dean didn't miss it. "How's your head?"

They'd only been outside for a matter of minutes, and the throbbing had snuck back, not nearly as bad as before, but building slowly. He didn't answer, knowing it was answer enough. He sighed. "What do we do, then?"

Like before, when they were little kids. Dean would know what to do.

Dean looked from Sam's face to the journal, over the Smithley Arms, and back to him. "We'll see what Josh has in mind," he decided. "Bobby says he checks out; Dad's telling us to stay here." His voice became gruffer. "Better than having you pass out on me, anyway."

More reassured than he wanted to admit, Sam nodded. "Okay." He refolded the map and threw it back into the glove compartment.

Dean caught his arm as he made to get out of the car. "Sam. Be careful."

"I know," he said, peering at his brother's darkened face to see what he was really trying to say. "I think he's alright, but we'll both be on guard..."

"Maybe." Dean rubbed at the stubble on his chin, looking torn. "I like Josh; always seemed like a good guy when me and Dad went to him. I just...I don't like the idea of him being able to see into your damn head. That's all."

Sam exhaled. "Yeah, you and me both." He waited to see if Dean would change his mind. After a minute, Dean shook his head and said, "What the hell. It's not like we've got an urgent hunt lined up or anything. Might as well take a free place to crash for a few nights."

He got out of the car and grabbed his duffel bag from the backseat. Sam followed, nearly forgetting again that his own bag wasn't there.

The throbbing lessened and tapered off as soon as they walked through the door. Sam was relieved, and then troubled that he felt so relieved.

Joshua was still sitting at the table when they opened the still unlocked door. "How long will this take?" Dean asked without prelude. The older man didn't look surprised.

"A few days, at least, to get a feel for it. Much longer if you want to really master it, but once you know what you're looking for, you can work on it on your own."

Sam wasn't sure that he wanted to 'master' anything. He'd settle for halting the headaches and learning how to get a few hours of sleep each night. Then they could look for...

Joshua looked significantly out the window. "We should start tomorrow, after you've gotten some sleep. Both of you," he added, looking at Dean. "It would be best at first if Sam stays here; I've got a couch in the spare room he can crash on. There's a motel a couple of blocks..."

"I'm staying with my brother," Dean said immediately.

Something flickered in Joshua's expression, but he nodded. "I understand. I'll bring some extra blankets for you, then." He began to turn, then stopped. "Dean...I realize this is...unusual for you...for both of you."

"Understatement of the friggin' year," Dean scoffed.

"But believe me, I'm only trying to..." He sighed. "You trusted me before; I'm just asking for the benefit of the doubt here."

Sam watched his brother, knowing how much Dean thought of the older hunter. He nodded eventually. "Yeah, I know, Josh. Thanks." His expression had softened fractionally, but he didn't relax his stance, still standing firmly a few steps in front of Sam. It wasn't lost on Joshua, who quirked a small, somewhat sad smile.

"You're really...you're like me?" Sam asked, wanting confirmation again. "You've done this before?"

Joshua paused. "I do know what you're going through, yes," he said. "As for the rest...our situations are different. There's quite a bit to explain—a lot you need to know."

"And...I won't have any dreams if I sleep?"

"I can't guarantee that," he said, looking sorry. "Visions—if they come, they won't hit as hard. But dreams are another thing entirely."

A feeling of alarm rose, and he wasn't sure whether it was at the idea of dreams or the fact that Joshua's bag of herbs was leaving his _brain_ open to anything—that Joshua might be able to see every detail of his dreams.

More disconcerted than ever, he imagined forcibly pulling his thoughts as far into his own head as possible, as if it would somehow stop the other man from reading them.

A sudden spike of pain stopped him with a gasp. Joshua frowned and put a hand on his arm. "Stop fighting it, Sam; that's not how to go about doing this. Just let yourself get some rest first. I know you're scared—but relax for now. There'll be plenty of time for this tomorrow. Go on," he said. "You must be exhausted."

The other room was a little smaller, behind a door leading away from the small kitchen next to Joshua's room. Dean wordlessly handed him the salt—_just in case_, his eyes said—and Sam lay a thick line in front of the door. No windows, so put the jar away and watched his brother check his gun.

"There's holy water in the flask."

It really couldn't get much more secure than a building full of weapons owned by a hunter, which no doubt had countless protections on it already. "Dean..."

"Sam." His voice brooked no argument, so Sam rummaged through the bag for the iron flask.

His fingers caught on something first. Tugging on it carefully—Dean had never been big on organization—he found himself holding Dean's rosary in his hand.

And that was another thing lost. Gone in the first or left behind in a room he'd never go back to—it didn't really matter.

_("...a reminder of your faith in the Lord," Pastor Jim said.)_

Sam choked off a laugh and put the rosary away before Dean's sharp gaze caught him. He gave the water flask a shake to judge how much was left and, out of habit, unscrewed the top and dipped a finger inside. He frowned.

"Dean, are you sure you did this right?"

"Huh," Dean said, reaching around to the pocket of his jacket. "That must be the wrong one. Here, this one should work." He tossed another, smaller flask.

Sam caught it, shook out a drop, and felt the gentle, tingling warmth that told him the water was blessed. "What was that," he asked as he screwed the cap back on, "a test?"

A few moments passed before Dean answered, but when he did his voice was light and unconcerned. "Just keeping you on your toes, Sammy."

Sam hesitated in front of the couch, looking at the small pallet of blankets spread nearby. Before he could move, Dean had shrugged off his jacket and claimed the spot on the floor. "You don't mind...?"

"I don't need a plushy bed to fall asleep, you pansy," Dean said and climbed into the blankets.

The part of Sam that longed to be an adult felt guilty, knowing Dean would always put his own comfort last. The selfish part—the part that still felt like a scared little kid running after Dean's coattails—was too busy feeling protected to argue.

Once Sam had settled, too, as much as the too-short sofa would allow, he listened for the slight rustle that would mean Dean was asleep, unable as always to stay motionless, even in sleep. The unusual stillness he heard in its place told him Dean was still awake.

He waited, staving off beckoning sleep, until his brother's voice floated up: "You okay?"

He sighed.

"'Cause if you're gonna cry, I'll move somewhere quieter to catch some z's..."

"I'm _fine_, Dean."

A silence. Then, "Sammy. I'm sorry about...you know. School and shit."

Sam was sorry that he couldn't think of Jess without remembering the terror in her eyes as she watched the flames burning. Sorry that he'd tried normal and failed—hadn't lasted the academic quarter before he'd_failed_. Sorry that he'd run back to Dean but lost Dad, that he was finally falling asleep in his brother's presence again and feeling more confused than he'd ever been.

He didn't answer.

"You know we're gonna find Dad, right?" Dean said. "As soon as we get all this spoon-bending business sorted out."

"You...you really think he'll know what to do?"

"Of course. Dad's been doing this our whole lives. He knows what he's doing."

"Yeah," Sam said after a beat. "Okay."

"...So you're...?"

"Good_night_, Dean."

Sam thought briefly about sending a prayer skyward to whoever the hell might be listening. Instead, he curled tighter and positioned his head so that Dean's unmoving lump under the blankets was clearly visible, and he finally dropped off to sleep to the sound of his brother's steady breathing.

XXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

"_That's why the demon went after them." Sam stared at the wooden table. "That's what happened, isn't it. The demon knew about them somehow—about us. That's why it attacked. And it's starting something."_


	10. Chapter 10

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen.

Notes: The next two chapters are fairly explanation-heavy, so I'll post chapter 11 soon after this one's up.

XXXXX

"_So Mom dying...Jessica...it's all 'cause of me?"_

_("Salvation")_

XXXXX

"_Sam, you're really leaving?"_

"_I have to. Jess. Jessica. I'm sorry."_

"_I know. I just with...we really had something going, didn't we?"_

"_Yeah. We really did."_

"_I don't know what to say."_

"_...I'll miss you, too."_

_A brush of soft lips against his cheek. He closed his eyes and leaned forward, pressing her warm body against his own..._

_The warmth grew. He tried to hold on, but the lips on his seek were hot, burning... _

_He opened his eyes and heat rose all around him, fire climbing higher in a wall before him. On the other side of the flames, Dean was splayed against the wall, wide-eyed with shock and mouth working soundlessly. The fire reached higher, until it seared the ceiling._

_He knew what he would see. Unable to stop himself, he looked up, slowly._

"_Why?" she asked. "Why, Sam?"_

XXXXX

Sam snapped his eyes open and sat up, gasping. Dean, still lying in his spot on the floor, was watching him.

He sank back against the back of the sofa, still breathing too fast, heart racing.

"Vision?" Dean asked, his voice rough from sleep. There was something odd in his tone that Sam couldn't decipher.

He shook his head, pretty sure he wasn't lying. "Dream," he corrected. Dean opened his mouth to speak, and Sam quickly added, "I'm going to get something to drink. Go back to sleep."

Not giving Dean time to answer, he extracted himself from the blankets, his hands moving automatically to untangle and smooth them back into place. He pushed open the door leading out of their room, stepped over the salt line, and closed the door again. He doubted Dean would really be falling back to sleep, but it would certainly be a futile effort for himself.

Bypassing the kitchen, he stepped out the front door and slid down the side of the store until he was sitting next to the door, watching the rising sun.

_It's early_, he thought, but his phone was against his ear before he could talk himself out of it.

One ring...two...three...

"_Hello?"_

There was no reason to feel so relieved. He did, anyway, releasing a breath as he let his head fall back against the wall.

"Jess. Hi. It's Sam."

XXXXX

Dean stepped out soon after he'd hung up with his girlfriend _(ex-girlfriend?)_. His eyes flicked down to the phone still in Sam's and. He didn't ask, so Sam answered, "Jess told them she didn't know how the fire started. She hasn't told anyone about the demon, except Steve—my old roommate—when he got back to the dorm."

"Do they have any idea what it really was?"

"Some electrical problem—that's their best guess. Although they're still not sure how to explain the sulfur."

Sam felt Dean's eyes on him but didn't look up to meet them. "That's what they said when Mom was killed. Electrical problems."

"I didn't know that."

"Mm."

"Jess said..." He hesitated.

"What?" Dean prompted after a few beats had passed.

"I'm...worried. She's talking about..." He sighed, scratching the back of his head in frustration. "She's been really interested in demons and spirits and...and everything that goes bump in the night."

"She has a right. The girl's been through a lot in a short time. She'll be safer, knowing how to protect herself."

"That's the thing." Sam shifted until his legs were stretched out straight in front of himself. "I don't think she's just trying to protect herself. I think she wants to get involved. Like...really involved. My roommate, too."

He squinted at the horizon, terrified Dean would say, _Good for them. Kill some more evil sons of bitches._

Instead, Dean asked, "She say that? Either of them?"

Worrying at his lip, Sam shook his head. "No, not in so many words. I just...I'm worried." Watching Dean out of the corner of his eye, he found his brother staring into the distance as well. "I wish she—I wish both of them would stay out of it."

"Yeah, me too."

Sam was surprised into looking up at him and asked, "That's it? '_Me too'_? You always say this life isn't so bad."

Dean's face hardened and he glared down. "For _us_, Sam. We were raised to do this; spent our lives training for this. We know what we're getting into. And I'm sorry you had to lose your chances at your apple-pie life like that, but hell, we're already so deep into this shit that..."

"We didn't have a choice. _You_ never had a choice, Dean."

"Yeah, well I fucking have a choice now, and _I'm_ choosing this! You can't..." Dean exhaled forcefully. "Look, man, I'm not stupid. I know this life is dangerous. Maybe we're stuck doing this, you and me; I don't really care. But I know how you feel about Jessica. I don't want you—your friends to get hurt. So yeah, I hope they stay out of the goddamn way."

Embarrassed at what he'd assumed about Dean, Sam nodded reluctantly. "Yeah, me too. I gave her the names of some books on warding—maybe we can ask Bobby for others, he knows every book on demons out there. She said they'd call us if they hear about something suspicious."

"Well, good. They'll stay out of trouble, then."

"I guess so." _For now_.

"Will you relax for a minute, Samantha? They'll be fine; we'll keep tabs on them if it'll make you stop angsting about it. Come on, lets get back inside."

Sam lifted his head, frowning. "I'm not going to lose it after a few minutes of not being under the influence of Joshua's magic bag of herbs."

Dean snapped back, "I didn't say you were, Sam. I just want to go in and fucking get something to eat. Jesus."

"I'm not—"

"_I'm_ not in the mood for one of your prissy fits. You haven't eaten anything since the day before yesterday at least, so if you say you're not hungry, so help me..."

"Fine! Fine."

"Good." He stood as Dean pushed the door open. "After you, princess."

Joshua was awake, too, probably roused by the noise they'd made sneaking around the store.

"You boys hungry?" he asked, peering into the refrigerator. "I don't have anything fancy, but..."

"Starving," Dean answered without so much as a glance at Sam. "We're not exactly expecting the Ritz, anyway."

"Sorry if we woke you," Sam said, but the apology was waved off.

"Nah, doesn't matter. How'd you sleep?"

"Fine," Sam replied. Joshua gave him a long look, and it occurred to him how stupid it was to try to lie to a psychic. It didn't help that Dean snorted and rolled his eyes. "No visions," he amended.

Dean was wandering around the room, picking things up at random but looking at nothing in particular. As Joshua cracked a few eggs into a pan, Sam watched his brother sit briefly, his leg jiggling restlessly, then stand again and pace.

Within minutes, they were seated at that same table again, Dean starting in ravenously on his eggs while Sam sipped at a glass of water and ripped apart a piece of toast with his fingers.

Joshua broke the silence. "I should tell you first of all that this business is more complicated than you think."

Dean chuckled nervously around a mouthful of bread. "I don't think that's possible, Josh."

He shrugged. "You asked earlier if I'm like Sam, so here it is: our abilities are alike, enough so that I can show you a few tricks. But there are a lot of ways psychic abilities can manifest. I can access people's minds—it's the most common form—but I don't have premonitions, like Sam. Some are telekinetic; others can exert influence on people around them...everyone's a little different."

Dean stopped mid-chew. "Wait, just how many of these psychics are there?"

"It's a rare thing, but not unheard of. Some people are just barely touched by their gifts and never even realize it."

Sam couldn't stop his disbelieving laugh. " 'Gift'? That's what you call it?"

Joshua gave him an unsympathetic frown. "It saved your girlfriend's life; more than once, if I'm not mistaken."

Chastened, if not completely won over, Sam looked away and cleared his throat, no longer bothering to ask how the man knew what had happened with Jessica.

"Now," Joshua went on, "the main difference between us is that my abilities came gradually. That's what normally happens. For you, Sam, something triggered the start of your visions, before you were ready for them."

"Well, what? _What_ triggered them?"

"My best guess would be the demon that killed your mother."

Sam's stomach sank and he pushed his plate away, giving up pretense of eating. "So I was right. All of this...it's tied to the demon somehow."

"You don't know that," Dean said to Joshua in a low voice. "You're just guessing."

"Dean," Sam argued, "it makes sense."

"Shut up, Sam—"

"No, you're right," Joshua broke in. "I _don't_ know. It's just a guess."

"Well, you're gonna have to explain that one, Josh. You sounded pretty sure for _'just a guess'_."

"For you to understand it... Let's start with what you know about the demon."

Dean scowled but answered, his words clipped. "Not much," he admitted. "It starts fires. Puts women on the ceiling and kills them."

Joshua nodded. "And not just mothers. Sometimes it's the father. Sometimes there's a fire, and no one's harmed."

'_Mothers_. _The father_.' Not just women and men, but mothers and fathers. A suspicion formed in Sam's mind. "They all had children?"

He nodded again. "Yes. They all had an infant. The fire always starts in the baby's room."

Dean had caught onto the line of thought, too. "Sam," he warned, but Sam pressed on.

"And the children?" His voice rose. "They all survived?"

_They were all freaks, too?_

Joshua looked away. "Not all, no. But most of them...yes. At least at first."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Dean demanded. " 'At first'."

"A lot of them have died early for some reason or another in the past couple of years. The pattern's hard to ignore. One of them was nineteen when he died in a school fire."

Dean cocked his head. "That's...that sucks, but—"

"He set the fires," Joshua interrupted. "A witness says he spontaneously combusted when he was done." Dean's eyebrows shot up, and Sam leaned back slightly, not expecting that. "No one believed her, of course."

"I wouldn't have, either. It sounds pretty friggin' crazy."

"And his mom died when he was a baby?" Sam asked, knowing the answer.

"In his nursery," Joshua confirmed. "Teachers, neighbors...everyone said he'd always liked fire a little too much. There are others: A twenty-year-old college student told four classmates to commit suicide, then confessed and hanged herself. Another kid, same age, claimed to be able to see the future; police arrested her for crimes she'd predicted, and she managed to kill herself in her cell while no one was looking. An eighteen-year-old orphan said all of a sudden he could hear voices talking to him from people around him; he went completely nuts one day and was shot while violently resisting arrest. And..."

"No, yeah. I get the idea," Sam said, releasing a shaky breath. "God. They...these kids..." _Kids his age._

"And they were all, you know..." Dean gestured toward his head.

"They weren't insane," Joshua protested, "or weren't at first. Something drove them to..."

_Kill people. Kill themselves_.

"I think Dean was trying to say, 'were they all psychics?'" Sam said. "Were they all like me?"

"It looks like it," Joshua said. "The eyewitness reports, the things they claimed to do... It fits."

"How do you know they weren't just possessed, or haunted by spirits or something? It would make sense, too." Sam couldn't quite make himself believe it, though.

"Good question. That's what we thought at first—myself and hunters I've worked with," he clarified. "But the few times someone's gone to check it out in time, it's always the same: no EMF, no cold spots, no sulfur residues, nothing. A couple people I know have actually suggested the possibility of some supernatural ability in the children."

"And that's why the demon went after them." Sam stared at the wooden table. "That's what happened, isn't it. The demon knew about them somehow—about _us_. That's why it attacked. And it's starting something."

Both older men were watching him. "Usually, I hear of three, four demons a year; there have been twice that in the past two months. I think it's safe to say that something's starting, but no one knows what the demon's agenda is," Joshua said.

'_But..._' Sam heard unspoken, _'but...'_

"But Mom dying...the demon sending a shapeshifter, and then finding Jessica and Dean and me in my dorm room, it's all 'cause of me?"

Dean slammed a hand down on the table. "Dammit, Sam, I'm sick of this thing you keep tossing around at me and Dad. We. Don't. Know."

"Oh, really? 'Cause I'd say we're pretty damn sure, Dean!"

"For the last time, Mom's death was not your fault, and neither is everything else that's happened!"

Sam shut his mouth against the words that wanted to come out. "Yeah, well," he said, softer, "it's still my problem."

"If it's got to do with this demon that put _our_ family through hell, then it's _our_ problem!"

When he'd been silent for too long, Dean growled, "It's not gonna happen, Sam."

Sam tightened his grip on a glass of water. "What are you talking about?"

"You're not gonna end up like them."

"How do you know that?" Sam said tightly. "These people were... Something pushed them so hard they went mad. And I'm just like them."

"You're not like them—"

"I remember how it_ felt_, Dean. When I fell asleep that night and started seeing things that didn't make any sense. Hell, even when I woke I wasn't sure what I'd actually seen and what I'd..._seen_. It only took _one night_ and I thought I was going crazy."

"Well, you weren't," Joshua said firmly, speaking up at last. "That's likely what happened to those children I mentioned before, yes. But they were alone, confused, too young to deal with something so sudden. You know things they didn't, you have advantages they didn't."

Sam kept his eyes on the glass and nodded. "Was it like that for you?" he asked. "When did you know you were...psychic?"

"I was...thirty, I think. It wasn't nearly as sudden for me, and I'd worked with hunters before, so I wasn't quite so lost. Still...what would you think if you started hearing voices that you knew weren't coming from your own head?"

Sam took a moment to consider and said, "Yeah, I can see how that would be..."

"Disorienting? Insane-sounding?" Joshua shook his head. "I got used to it. To be honest, I still have trouble in large crowds or around strong emotion. It's why I don't leave here much if I can help it. I've gotten used to relying on herbs as a crutch."

Raising his eyes in alarm, Sam asked, "They're addictive?" Dean sat up straighter.

"Not...really," Joshua hedged. "But you can develop something of a dependence on it."

"Yeah, like an_ addiction_," Dean put in, shooting a glance toward Sam.

"Not like that. It's just...I never trained myself enough to...wean myself off them. There was no reason to—I live here, I work here...I never really need to leave for long periods of time."

Dean shifted, turning this over in his head. "Okay, how is that not—"

"But I don't have to, right?" Sam interrupted. "I mean... I can't stay here forever, there's stuff we need to..." He scrubbed a hand through his hair. "How fast can you teach me, Joshua?"

"It...depends on how far you want to go. And these plants, they're not rare or unusual—you can keep some with you—"

"No!" he said, repulsed by the idea of having to rely on something—however innocuous—for his goddamn _sanity_. Then, calmer, "No. We'll stay just as long as it takes to stop this from knocking me over every time a vision comes, and then we'll get out of your way."

Dean's gaze had moved to him again. "Sam—"

"Dean."

Joshua looked between the two of them, rubbed distractedly at his forehead, and finally nodded. "It's your choice. We'll see how everything progresses for a few days. Go from there."

"Thanks, Joshua. Really. Thank you."

He smiled humorlessly. "Don't thank me yet, kid. You've got a long day ahead of you."

XXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

"_Don't be so sure," Josh said. "Imagine someone—a human—who died, went to hell, and then crawled back out...with a little less compassion than before. A little more greed and lust for power. More hate and anger and love for war. Is it so hard to believe?"_

XXXXX

Notes: I don't know what I was thinking, starting to post my first fanfic weeks before I have to take the MCAT. I'm proficient enough at procrastinating that my last couple of weeks of cramming shouldn't delay posting (I've written up to chapter 20 and am inching toward the finale). I had no idea how addictive writing could be, and I'll probably end up scribbling whenever I'm sick of studying the renal system. Anyway, I'll be done in the beginning of April. Like I said, I don't think anything here will be affected, but in case it is...well, school has to come first for me.

On another note, I just finished a chapter that hits some really key points in the mythology of this story. I'm really excited.


	11. Chapter 11

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes:

Because it was mentioned in some reviews...for the Jess/Steve hunting thing mentioned in the last chapter, that's _not _going to be playing a part in this story. I admit I was thinking of their eventual involvement in hunting, but it would have been years and years down the line--much further than this story goes, so they would be in a possible follow-up or separate fic as minor characters.

I also haven't mentioned this before, but I'm really grateful for the reviews I've gotten, however long or short. It's good to have an idea of how things are going, especially since this is my first try at the fanfic business.

I hope no one minds that Caleb, who doesn't have a surname in canon (I think), is named as Caleb Reeve here in tribute to the Brotherhood AU 'verse. It's literally just a name that gets dropped; the character shouldn't ever even show up in my story.

XXXXXXXXXX

"_You know how hunters talk."_

"_No, actually. We don't."_

_("Bloodlust")_

XXXXXXXXXX

"So tell me again why I can't watch whatever the hell you two are doing all day?"

"Sam needs to be able to do this on his own, with or without you."

"You're saying I'd distract him or something?"

"No, not that—I think he depends on you too much for support."

Dean snorted. "Sure." Sam depended on himself and not much else.

Josh slid a sheet of paper across the table toward him. "Do these ring any bells?"

Quirking an eyebrow, he asked, "What's all this?"

"Your brother blocked out most of the visions he's had, but he's been able to pull out a few names and images. Usually people have premonitions about things that have something to do with themselves, so I thought something might be familiar to you."

The hastily scribbled words weren't Sam's handwriting—Josh's, obviously. Most of the paper was covered in single words or fragments of phrases.

_Twins_, was the first one, followed by, _Blonde woman—jumped off bridge_.

_Killed cat by touch. _

_Blonde woman—knife through eye. _

_Man—died in car (garage). _

_Woman (dark hair)—ceiling, fire. _

_Man—killed by fiancé._

That would suck.

_Man—decapitated by window_.

Ah, right, that one. Dean thought it was a little comforting that Sam's brain wasn't screwed up enough to make up a dream on its own about a window-turned-guillotine.

The rest was in the same vein. "These are cheery," he said. "There's not enough to go on, here—he didn't have any more details about the people or anything?"

Josh shook his head. "That's it, at least for now. Sam didn't recognize any of them, either, but I'll try again with him later."

"Well, it doesn't make any sense."

"Are you talking about one part in particular or...?"

Dean shook his head. "Yeah, good point." He glanced at the adjoining room where Sam was sleeping. "This demon...it went after Sam and those other kids."

"It seems likely," Josh said.

"But why? I mean, why psychics?" And then, what he'd been wondering since the night before, "Were you—_are_ you one of...?"

"Nope. I'm just your normal, everyday mind reader."

Hah. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that. So what made Sam and the others different?" _What made them targets?_

"I don't—"

"Make a guess." Guesswork seemed to be Josh's specialty. He was good at it, maybe, but still.

"The only thing I can think of is...power. Normally...I'm strong enough to sense emotions and catch a few phrases from people's thoughts, but what I've heard of the demon's kids—what I've seen from Sam—is a lot more than that. Maybe he's planning to use them somehow."

_The demon's kids_. Not the phrase Dean would have picked.

"What exactly _have_ you seen from Sam? I've been going batshit sitting in that room while you two do your Jedi mind tricks."

It had only been four in the afternoon when Sam collapsed onto the couch. Josh had followed with a couple of aspirin, and Sam had fallen asleep faster than Dean had ever seen in his life.

"Your brother's a quick study," Josh said. As if Dean didn't know that already. "You have to understand: for him, it's like having another level of access in his brain. He needs to learn how to tell which thoughts are purely his own and which are related to his visions. It's not as obvious or as easy as you'd assume."

"But he can stop them?" Dean asked.

Josh frowned. "This isn't something that just goes away, kid. Like it or not, this is part of Sam."

Dean swiped a hand over his face in frustration. "Well, I _don't_ like it. I like things I can shoot."

Josh grinned wryly. "Oh, come on, kid. You like your brother, don't you?"

"Well, sometimes I want to shoot him, too."

He laughed outright at that. "What are brothers for?" Sobering, he said, "Sam asked me the same thing, actually. He grasped the concept well enough, but he's still trying to push away everything that feels foreign. Premonitions are tricky that way—it starts out as a more passive ability than, say, telekinesis or telepathy. You have to give up some control while still holding onto what makes you yourself."

"Sam must hate that—such a control freak."

"Not unlike your dad," Josh commented.

Dean shrugged uncomfortably. "Either way, at least maybe now he'll stop thinking that he'll start rampaging and hurting people. Can't exactly kill with a vision." When Josh didn't answer, he pushed, "Right?"

"Some of the other children I told you about...well, take the girl who killed herself in jail, for instance. One guard insisted afterwards that they'd tried to get in and stop her, but kept getting blocked by flying objects."

"Sounds like they were covering their asses."

"Maybe," Josh conceded noncommittally. "But..."

"But you don't think so," Dean sighed. "This girl could do more than one thing, then. And you think Sam...?"

"I wouldn't rule out the possibility. Perhaps that's why the demon chose them: it knew they had more potential than most."

Dean pushed his chair back a few inches. "Great." After thinking this over, he shook his head. "I still don't get it. Why would the demon be flipping on the switch in these kids now? If they can't handle it and end up killing themselves...I mean, what's the point?"

Josh chewed thoughtfully on his lip. "I think...it's trying to test them."

Dean's skin prickled. "A test," he repeated.

"To see who makes it," Josh clarified. "To see who's stronger. Survival of the fittest."

"Fittest for what?"

Josh shook his head. "I don't have a clue there. Wish I did."

Dean took a long sip of his drink. Squinting at the bottle, he debated silently with himself and then asked, "Hey, Josh. You know a lot about demons...does holy water work on anything besides them?"

He looked surprised at the question. "It shouldn't. Why?"

"There was this shapeshifter that went after Sam, and he swears holy water burned it."

Josh frowned in thought. "Was it possessed?"

"Posses—Can they even _be_ possessed?"

"Not in the usual sense," Josh said, "but sometimes, especially when you're dealing with higher demons, they can piggyback on a creature's consciousness somewhat. Especially if the creature's a willing host."

"_Higher demons_? What the fuck; there's a pecking order?" _And they have these freaks of nature as serving them?_

"Yes, that much we know. And it looks like this demon here is definitely somewhere pretty high up."

"That's...comforting." Dean hesitated, then asked carefully, "You ever hear of something that was affected by holy water, but not burnt or even really hurt by it?"

With a suspicious gaze, Josh said, slowly, "I've heard of a few cases. Humans, usually, or so they seemed. Some hunters who specialize in exorcisms get influenced by being around demons so much and claim to be able to tell the difference from tap water. And then there are legends of part-demons—half-bloods—although no one's ever verified them. But..."

"But what?"

"Well, it's hard to say, really. All demons were human once, you know, centuries ago, so—"

"Whoa...you're fucking with me, right?" Dean said incredulously. "They're nothing like humans."

"Don't be so sure," Josh said. "Imagine someone—a human—who died, went to hell, and then crawled back out...with a little less compassion than before. A little more greed and lust for power. More hate and anger and love for war. Is it so hard to believe?"

The worst part was that Dean could imagine it all too easily—hell, he didn't understand half the time how twisted people could be. Still... "People can't do half the shit demons can do."

"No? A disturbed teenager set his school on fire by thinking it. Your brother can see the future and who knows what else. It's not a huge leap to think these gifts and hidden abilities could be subverted, amplified, perverted after death."

"My brother wouldn't hunt anyone," Dean said resolutely. "Hell, Sammy practically feels guilty killing werewolves."

Josh raised his hand as if in surrender. "I'm not saying he would. I'm just saying—the line's thinner than you think. For anyone."

Dean shook his head with a low whistle. "Jesus, Josh. How the hell do you know all this?"

"No one understands demons, kid, not really. What makes a person evil, what happens after languishing so long in hell, what rules govern them. Maybe I'm wrong about demons and their origins, although that is what we believe, those of us who study demons. This is what I do: I'm not a hunter in the usual sense, but I was raised by one and I do what I can to help. Research, studying the lore. Learning."

"That's why Dad used to talk to you so much, huh?" When he only got a shrug in reply, he continued, "And he...he really didn't tell you anything about where he went?"

Josh shook his head. "No. I'm sorry, kid; he didn't say."

He nodded. Fine. Dad would contact them when he could.

When he drained the last of his drink, he stood and stretched. Before moving toward the room where Sam was sleeping, though, he asked, "Uh, Josh. You, uh...You're not listening to everything I'm thinking, are you?" Because that would be beyond disturbing.

Although...if Dean could read minds, he'd totally be taking a look into people's heads. Sam, for one. That waitress in the diner down the street, for another.

Amused, Josh answered, "I like to respect people's privacy, and I wasn't kidding when I said it takes some effort for me. I was just trying to prove a point last night, with Sam. Besides, it's easier with him. You've got a really hard block on your thoughts."

"Meaning...?"

"I suppose you haven't had any training before..."

Yeah, right. Like he was going to sit in place for hours breathing deep or some shit like that.

"...so I've been assuming it's a charm or something. Your father carried one around with him."

Cocking his head, Dean's thoughts snagged on the amulet he wore around his neck. He'd thought when he was little that it was charmed somehow, since it came from Bobby, but he'd never been sure. Without reaching for it, he grunted, "Huh."

He couldn't deny a bit of relief that, whatever abilities Sam developed, Dean's mind would stay his own.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Do you ever get tired of this, Joshua?" Sam asked on their third day at Smithley Arms as he took another sip of the (truly disgusting) tea that Caleb had been making him drink. "Spending your life paranoid that some demon'll get past your salt lines?"

Joshua didn't answer; he looked searchingly at Sam instead. Sam grimaced, trying to focus enough to find Joshua's foreign presence in his mind and push it away. "Stop that. I'm serious."

"You're getting better," the other man said.

"Yeah, hopped up on this...buchu leaf cocktail and whatever's in here." Saturated with the stuff (if only he still had his laptop, or library access, he could find out exactly what the hell the stuff even was) it wasn't hard to sense when something was _off_ in his mind, but trying to fix it still brought an ache behind his eyes.

"It'll be very different when you're on your own," Joshua warned. "But, to be honest, sometimes the most important part is knowing how to keep your mind separate without forcing a block that'll just crumble and crash eventually. And know that it's real and you're not hallucinating."

"I'm not psychotic, just psychic," Sam deadpanned, then laughed at how absurd that sounded.

"Sam—"

"Sorry. I'll manage. Josh, about what I was asking—"

"Do you remember any more of your visions from before?"

Sam sighed and played along. "Just those same people I don't recognize. One of them was Matt or Max or Mac something. I don't even have a name or anything for the others."

"That could easily have been all," Joshua told him. "Visions tend to be scrambled and in pieces in the beginning."

"Tell me about it."

"Sam, I know this is hard. For you and your brother more than most, maybe."

"What do you mean?"

"You two are...unusual for hunters. Most people only get into this life because of a tragedy—a loved one dying, for instance. "

He stiffened defensively. "And our mom's death isn't tragic enough for you?"

"It is to for dad," Joshua said, unperturbed. "For your brother, too, as much as he really remembers of her. But I don't think it is for you."

Indignation boiled up hot. "Excuse me?"

Joshua stood and emptied the dregs of his teacup into the sink before reclaiming his chair. "Sam, I've known your dad since I was Dean's age. I know how hard your mother's death hit him. It's enough to drive a man to hunting, looking for answers. But you and your brother? Yes, that event might have been the catalyst. But you—and Dean, especially—hunt because of your _dad_, not because of your mom."

There was nothing to say to that; Sam had spat the same sentiments at both Dean and Dad, if not in so many words.

"You and Dean are something of a contradiction in our world. Not many people can claim to be as well-trained as you, and certainly not so young. At the same time, you're...sheltered."

"_Sheltered_? I've known about the supernatural since I was eight."

"I don't mean from the things you hunt so much as from other hunters."

Furrowing his brow, Sam said, "I don't follow."

"How many hunters do you know, Sam? Besides your family."

"You," he said, thinking. "Bobby Singer, Jim Murphy. Um. I met Caleb Reeve, once. Dean's probably met a couple others. Why?"

"Three, maybe four others. Sam, our numbers aren't huge, but we do form a community, of sorts. Hunters know each other, or at least know _of_ each other. You and your brother...you're probably better at what you do than most people twice or three times your age, but you're really out of the loop."

"What are you saying?"

"If you knew more of us, you'd realize how rare it is to have hunters who were literally raised to hunt instead of stumbling into it. You and Dean put together know a good bit. But no one knows enough to go through life hunting without help. Your dad found himself some mentors and allies—some you've probably never even heard of, much less met. You don't survive long on your own, not in this job."

_Not everyone survives long even _with_ help_. "So, what, we should make friends with more hunters?"

"No...I wouldn't advise that, exactly."

"Then..."

"You need people you can trust; there's a difference. Especially..." Joshua sighed, looking tired. "Not everyone takes kindly to the idea of a psychic. Your brother was ready to waste me, and I've known him since he was a kid."

Sam had been, too; he'd raised the gun first, in fact. "Yeah, uh...Josh, I'm sorry for the way we..."

"It's understandable, Sam—you stay alert if you want to stay alive. And I do think it was more about the possible threat to you than it was about generalized prejudice against psychics."

"So you think I should keep quiet about all this."

"Don't go announcing it, anyway. Your dad kept hunters away from his children to protect them. You're not children anymore, but you can't let your guard down; you and your brother are on your own for now, and you'll need to make absolutely sure you know who to trust."

Sam stared into his teacup as if answers were there. "So you think my dad knew about me? These visions?"

Joshua paused in thought. "Not necessarily. John Winchester played his hand close to his chest—" Sam huffed a laugh in agreement— "but I don't think he really _knew_ for certain."

"But you said hunters..."

"I said hunters know other hunters. I didn't say all of them are people you want to know. Practically every one of them is in this life for revenge.. We do a lot of good—I do believe that—but most of us are driven by the very things we claim to fight: rage, obsession, hubris. If your father had known that a demon was what killed your mother, I don't doubt you'd have grown up focusing solely on demonology. The desire to preserve good isn't as strong as the desire to inflict pain on whatever hurt us to begin with."

"But if that helps to get through it...what does it matter what the motivation is, if the effect is the same?" Kill the evil thing, period; they'd had that drilled into their heads as soon as they knew what was out there. Still, hadn't Sam always been the one to complain that there should be more to life?

"It matters because... If vengeance is your only motivation, what happens if you finally kill what you were looking for? What's left? That anger has to go somewhere. There aren't any set rules to hunting, Sam; we work based on right and wrong and to hell with the law, because we know better, don't we. But sometimes right and wrong aren't as clear as black and white, and when hunters disagree, it can get nasty."

"I'm sure there are some hunters who get fanatical and act like...like lawless vigilantes, but I've never actually heard of..."

"You won't hear of many hunters who've gone over the edge, because one of us will hear about it fast and put a stop to it."

"...And when you say 'put a stop to it,' you mean..."

"I mean we do whatever it takes to keep our corner of the world safe; that's what this whole game's about. A rogue hunter's bad news, and dangerous."

Sam shivered. "That's...pretty cold."

"That's how it works, Sam. So you'd better know damn well who your allies are. Even then, there's a reason why we work alone most of the time."

_Is that what family is to most hunters—a network of people they trust not to kill them?_

"Hunting's not exactly a family business," Joshua said, a glint in his eye. "You'd have to be crazy or dysfunctional in a big way to think it is. It's one of the reasons you Winchesters stand out."

"Shit," Sam muttered, closing his eyes and pushing back the mental probe that was Joshua picking his brain. At least the exercise distracted him from thinking about the words..

Looking at him sideways, Joshua nodded in satisfaction, then asked, "And...lawless vigilantes? Really, Sam...what is it you think we are?"

He'd gone to school hoping to study law. Hah. _How things change_.

"Let's get back on track," Joshua said briskly, breaking him from that line of thought. "Have you been able to initiate a vision deliberately?"

Sam shook his head. Whatever the man said about _'use your gift to you advantage, Sam_,_'_ he couldn't imagine actually wanting to elicit a vision on his own; especially since they didn't seem to make much sense once he had them. "I've tried—" (_halfheartedly_) "—but I can't get anything. Maybe I'm doing something wrong; I'm still not sure I understand exactly what I'm supposed to be doing."

Joshua was frowning, but then said, "That could just be the form your ability takes. Your visions might simply come on involuntarily, rather than at your command."

On the other hand,_involuntarily_ didn't sound all that appealing, either.

"Take a break. It's time we stopped for lunch, anyway."

Sam nodded. Curious, he asked, "How do you do it? I mean, other hunters know you're psychic, and..." _And no one's wasted you, yet_.

Joshua looked surprised. "Why do you think that?"

Sam thought it would be in bad taste to say, _We didn't really trust you, so we called someone to see if there was any dirt on you_, so he shrugged.

Luckily, Joshua continued. "Most hunters think I'm just a guy who sells guns. There are only a few I trust. Singer, for one—that man knows about everyone in this business. Your dad, of course. Harvelle, before he passed. Murphy."

"Pa—Jim Murphy? I thought he'd be more...inflexible about good and evil."

Tilting his head to the side, Joshua asked, "Why? Because he's a religious man?"

Sam opened his mouth to deny that he'd been thinking that, then closed it, because he kind of had. "I guess. That's not fair, I know."

"Well, God-fearing people _have_ had a hand in their share of mankind's...less proud moments in history, but then, they've done their share of good, too. Jim Murphy's in a difficult situation: as a hunter, he can't take things just on faith; as a religious leader, sometimes he has to."

Sam walked to the sink to dump the remains of his tea-sludge down the drain, then turned around, leaning back against the stove. "I...I just don't get how he does it."

Joshua didn't stand but continued to study his expression. "There's nothing wrong with having faith, as long as you don't lose objectivity because of it."

"But with what we see every day... I mean, there's just...chaos. Violence, and random, unpredictable evil. Where's God in that?"

"I don't have an answer for you, Sam. I can't show you hard proof and say for sure whether God exists or not."

Sam looked past Joshua and out the window, where all he could see of his brother was a pair of legs protruding from under the Impala. "Dean would say that's proof enough."

"Your brother does have faith, you know."

Sam quirked an eyebrow. "I'm pretty sure he _doesn't_."

"Not in God, no; you're right about that. But there are other things he trusts,_always_, things he would believe in without a shred of evidence."

He searched Joshua's face, not understanding until... "Dad," he said.

_A blind faith_, Sam thought, but maybe there was no other kind.

Joshua inclined his head. "Probably. He believes in other things, as well, I think." Sam broke off his gaze first. "And what about you, Sam? Do you believe?"

Sam thought about the rosary, lost or forgotten four hundred miles away, and the other one he'd stuffed away from sight in his brother's duffel bag.

Then his eyes drifted back to the window, where Dean was now standing to pop the trunk of his car. A practiced hand reached out to jam a shotgun upright under the top, propping it open. As he watched, Dean sifted through the mess, extracted something, and tied it deftly so that it dangled. When he looked more carefully, he could make out the details of the dreamcatcher.

Sam let out a breath. "Huh," he said softly. "Yeah. I guess I do."

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

"_Well, what does it say?"_

_Unable to conceal his excitement completely, Dean held his phone up for Sam to see. "New coordinates."_


	12. Chapter 12

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes:

A few facts from the case in this chapter might be a little different from canon, but hey...it's AU (and it's not a huge difference, anyway). The chapter's also kind of heavy on canon references and jokes—all in good fun, of course.

The cases referenced below should be pretty obvious. Also (again), the timing of events is different, sometimes they play out differently. Not every case in the series is actually here, because who wants a rewrite of every scene from the show? This is the last relatively light-hearted (and I use that very loosely) chapter before the real drama and the action and the meat of this story come in. Humor, some angst, some slightly more subtle angst...Have fun!

XXXXXXXXXX

"_I mean, our family's so screwed to hell, maybe we can help some others. Makes things a little bit more bearable." _

_("Wendigo")_

XXXXXXXXXX

"Come on, Sam, up and at 'em," Dean said as soon as his brother woke that morning.

Well, maybe he kicked his brother in the foot and flipped on the light, but he was just speeding up the process.

"Dean? What time 's it?"

Ignoring the groggy question, he said, "Heard from Dad."

Sam sat up quickly, all traces of sleep disappearing. "What? When?"

"Sometime last night."

"Why the hell didn't you wake me?"

"Didn't get the message until now."

Sam paused in flailing to his feet. "Message. You didn't talk to him."

"Nah," Dean answered casually. "He sent a text message." Sam was still frozen halfway out of his blankets. "Move your ass, Sammy! What're you waiting for?"

"A text message." Sam came fully to his feet. "From _Dad_?"

"Am I speaking a foreign language here?" Well. Sam might know some foreign languages, actually, so he amended, "Besides Latin. Or whichever one you were trying to learn in high school, what was it, Spanish or somethi—"

"Dude." Sam held his arms out to the side and tilted his head, clearly asking something.

Dean stared back. "What?"

"Dad barely knows how to operate a _toaster_. He's barely even likes e-mail—you don't think it's weird that he's texting you?"

Dean shrugged. "I don't really care. He's sent us a message; that's good enough for me." The last part came out like a challenge. Sam recognized it, too, and lifted his chin stubbornly but didn't argue.

"Well, what does it say?"

Unable to conceal his excitement completely, Dean held his phone up for Sam to see. "New coordinates."

That got his attention, and Dean could see defiance warring with curiosity. Eventually, Sam grabbed the phone to peer more closely at the screen. "Where's this point to?" he asked.

Dean had only had time to look that part up. " Jericho, California," he said, tossing a haphazardly folded map in Sam's direction.

"Huh." His tone was oddly forced, but his eyes remained fixed on the map so that Dean couldn't see his expression.

"What?"

"Nothing."

Dean waiting, resisting the urge to tap his foot impatiently, which would just be more likely to make Sam clam up. Sure enough...

"It's just that we'll have to make sure we stay away from Stanford," Sam said lightly, his finger tracing a route on the map. "They're probably still suspicious about the fire and everything."

Because that was clearly the reason why he wanted to stay away from the school. " Jericho's a couple hours away. It'll be fine."

"Yeah." Pushing the map away, Sam reached for a reasonably clean shirt and checked his watch. "If we leave now, we can get there before evening."

Hell, _yes_.

It had only been five days, but holed up here with nothing to do, Dean was about to start climbing the walls. There were only so many times a person could clean his weapons. He'd killed some time scrounging up cash and getting some clothes to replace the ones Sam had lost in the fire, which had felt kind of gay, but dammit, he was tired of Sam borrowing—and stretching—his clothes. Working on the Impala was always nice, but seriously, there was only so much you could do for a perfect car.

So he was a little surprised to hear himself say, "You're sure you're ready?"

Even if Josh was still the same guy Dean had known before, he couldn't help feeling a little uneasy around so much psychic talk all the time without a clue what exactly was going on. And those things that looked like witch bags still gave him the willies.

Sam folded a sheet (Dean wasn't sure why since they'd just be tossing them into the laundry for Josh, anyway. Neat freak.) "I can't stay here forever. We've gotta find Dad."

Sam was fixated on the demon; Dean could understand that. He didn't quite understand how much Sam wanted to find Dad, but he was leaving that gift horse alone. He'd take what he could get between his brother and his father.

"Well, okay, then. Pack your crap. We'll head out after breakfast."

Joshua was a little more reluctant but eventually nodded. "If you're sure you don't want to take this with you..." he suggested again, holding out a bag.

"No," Sam said firmly. "Thanks, Josh, but I'll manage."

Dean agreed. The little bag still looked a little too much like a Hex Bag for his liking, and he was staying away from that as much as he could.

"Call me if you need help, Sam," Josh said. "If you're nearer, Missouri Mosely in Kansas can help you, too, or a guy who goes by Edgar Cayce in New Jersey." (_Edgar Cayce? Seriously?)_ "You should be fine when you're not having visions, and even then, just try to let them in—they might even help on a hunt sometimes." Then, to Dean, "Watch out for your brother."

With an uncomfortable glance at Sam, who was picking up his bag, Dean said, "Uh huh. Thanks for your help, Josh."

Once in the car, heading toward California, Sam asked, "How do we find him once we get there?"

"Same way as always. Keep our eyes open for anything weird going on; that's where Dad'll be."

"Have you checked the news?"

"I haven't exactly had that much time yet, Speedy. We'll check once we get closer." With a grin of contentment, he added, "Besides, research is your job. Time to get your geek on, Poindexter."

XXXXXXXXXX

Dean looked up at the sound of a payphone slamming back onto the hook, loud enough to carry clearly through the glass window. Sam was pushing through the door of the diner and stalking toward the table where Dean was sitting.

"The phone do something to you, Sammy?"

Ignoring the jibe, Sam fell into the opposite seat and told him, "I've checked two local hospitals, the police station, the morgue... No one matching Dad's description was brought in over the past two weeks."

Dean raised his eyebrows. "A little early for that, isn't it? We've been here less than twenty-four hours."

"Look, I've scoured every newspaper I could find, did an internet search, and checked all the local news channels. There's _nothing_ here."

Dean warily watched the butter knife that Sam was clutching like a clumsy weapon rather than an eating utensil. "Well, maybe you need to work on those reading skills, college boy," he said, pushing a newspaper across the table. "Check it out."

Exhaling hard through his nose, Sam jerked it toward himself and scanned over the headlines. "I've looked over this one."

Rolling his eyes, Dean tapped on a short article with the handle of his fork. "Try again."

"So a man died in a car crash," Sam said. "And?"

"_And_ he wasn't the first one. That's the third person who died or went missing driving on that same stretch of road. All young men, all driving alone, all near an old abandoned house where people supposedly died violent deaths."

Come on, it didn't get clearer than that. No way Sam could be this badly out of practice after a few months' break.

"Yeah, I'm not blind, Dean. The repetition, the pattern...sounds like it's just an angry spirit."

Dean knew he had to be missing something, because had Sam really just said that? "I'm sorry, which memo did you miss? The one where Casper's going around killing people or the one where we have to stop it?"

"Dammit, Dean, it's not--!" Sam broke off as patrons turned at the noise. More quietly, he said, "There's gotta be something else."

Still not understanding, he asked, "Why? Most of the stuff we do is restless spirits. I'm telling you, this is it."

"Dad didn't come here to salt and burn a few bones."

"Well, let me know when you find something you think is more worthy of his time, because this spirit is all that's going on in this town, Sam."

"Then he's not here."

Dean looked at Sam, eyes narrowed.

"Dean, he's spent nineteen years looking for the thing that killed Mom. Now he finally knows what it is, and you think he's gonna ignore it for a hitchhiking ghost?"

"You know what, I don't get you--you haven't tried to see eye to eye with the man in years."

"The sooner we find him, the sooner we can get this over with."

" 'Get this over with'?" Dean repeated.

"The demon."

Irritation boiled over into anger. "You think I don't want to kill that sonuvabitch as much as you do?"

"Then what're we doing here?"

"What Dad wants us to do! He wants us _here_. I don't know what he's doing, but..."

Sam shoved the paper away from himself. "Not like he's ever told us what was going on. I don't know why I expected this time to be different."

"I can't believe you," Dean hissed. "You'd never even want to see him again if you didn't want to just pick his brain about this fucking demon."

Sam was quieter this time, but the hurt in his eyes spoke loud enough. "That's not true."

Dean wasn't in the mood to coddle. "Hey, maybe he was here, maybe he wasn't. But we've gotta trust him. We'll find Dad and we'll send the demon back to hell, but we're not gonna ignore everything else on the way." When he saw Sam wavering, he added, "People are _dying_, Sam."

The last bit was a cheap shot—he knew it would work—but it was also true. Normally, Sam would have been the first to point that out. There was something wrong about being the one to push that part through Sam's preoccupation with the demon.

He'd hit the mark, though. Shame flickered through Sam's lowered eyes, and he nodded, biting his lip. "Yeah. You're right."

"I'm always right. Eat your breakfast."

As Dean paid the bill, Sam said, somewhere between teasing and cautious, "You just wanna go set something on fire, don't you."

Dean grinned in relief and anticipation. "Hell yeah."

XXXXXXXXXX

"Constance Welch," Dean read from the article Sam had just printed out. The laptop was Dean's technically, though his brother had practically taken it over since leaving Josh's place, which was fine—Dean knew his way around computers, but Sam knew more tricks and was more in his element in that arena.

"Yup. Doesn't say where she's buried."

He shrugged. "So we'll go talk to the husband. Maybe he knows something more."

"Uh...why don't you go ahead. I'll keep looking around here."

Dean paused at the door. "We're two-and-a-half hours away from Stanford, Sam. You're not going to bump into someone if you leave the motel."

"It's not that. There's just...there's a lot of research I haven't sifted through yet."

Pulling the car keys from his pocked, Dean left it alone.

"Hey, Sam, you haven't had any, you know, weird dreams lately, have you?"

Sam tilted his head in thought. "No, actually. You think something's wrong?"

_I'm perfectly happy with that_. He shrugged casually. "Maybe going to Josh did some good, huh? Maybe you'll stop having them now."

Sam looked up and gave a hopeful smile. "Yeah. Guess so."

xxxxx

"Get anything?" Sam asked when Dean returned later that night.

"The guy didn't say much. But I get the feeling their marriage wasn't as happy-go-lucky as he was pretending. You?"

"These three victims weren't the first. There were a few others before—and get this. Four of the widows had filed for divorce just days before Constance struck."

Dean frowned. "You think they were doing something to the husbands?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe. But it could just be something more mundane. Domestic disputes or something—could be anything."

Remembering Joseph Welch's shifty expression, Dean realized, "I'll bet you anything they were cheating." He smirked at Sam's neat row of victims' photos on the wall. "You sly dogs."

His brother considered. "A Woman in White, you think?"

It fit—an affair, the dead children, the suicide. "Looks like it. But we've got a problem. Her body was never recovered after she jumped."

"No bones to burn, then," Sam said. "Unless you feel like taking a swim."

"Very funny." Dean sighed in disappointment. "So we've gotta find some other way to take care of her."

"Hold on," Sam said suddenly. "Everyone who died was near the abandoned house on Breckenridge Road, right? You said there were violent deaths there?"

"Yeah, get this: that was their home. Husband moved out after she died."

"So that's where the kids died. Where she _killed_ her own children." Sam looked at him significantly.

Dean snapped his fingers in satisfaction. "I knew I kept you around for a reason."

The smile Sam flashed at him was sharp and had an edge of pride and_I'm-good-and-you-know-it_. Sam _was_ good at this part, he admitted—not out loud, obviously, Jesus—and he liked it, no matter how much he pretended he didn't.

"Well, come on, then. Let's take the bitch home."

XXXXXXXXXX

The next case was in Pennsylvania. Sam found it ironic that they were driving across the country—rather than flying—to an airport. Dean didn't.

"There's was a sulfur residue on that plane."

Sam peered doubtfully into the eyepiece. "You can tell just by looking at it under a microscope?"

Dean shrugged. "You're supposed to be the genius here," he sniped, "'cause you're sure not the graceful one."

"Dean, will you get over it? I didn't break your walkman."

"Yeah, well, that's not gonna fix it, now, is it?"

Although...

"An EMF meter?" Sam said skeptically when Dean was done.

"It's homemade," he said proudly. Sam rolled his eyes.

xxxxx

_St. Louis, Missouri_

"How'd you know it wasn't me?" Dean asked when he'd freed himself from the rope holding him to a column.

"The shapeshifter?"

"No, I mean the _other_ supernatural freak of nature we've been hunting down. Yes, the shapeshifter!"

Sam shuffled his feet guiltily. "I lined the collar of your jacket with silver wire a month ago. Saw the rash on its neck."

"Wait, you did_ what _to my jacket?"

"Well, clearly, it's barely noticeable."

"I'm gonna fucking kill you."

"It's still driving your car," Sam reminded him.

Dean growled. "So I'll kill _it_ first, and _then_ I'll kill you."

xxxxx

_Oasis Plains, Oklahoma_

"Seriously? These spiders? That's what killed her?"

"That's what they're saying."

"But...they're tiny. They don't even look real."

"Spider venom can be pretty deadly. Who knows how toxic they were."

Dean shook his head, grumbling, "Killer beetles and spider bites. There'd better not be bees."

xxxxx

_Burkitsville, Indiana_

"I can't believe we're being sacrificed to the Vanir."

"You're tied to an apple tree, Sam. What exactly is making this hard to believe?"

"No, I mean, it's always a couple. Like, a fertility thing."

A pause. "So they think we're...? Come on! You're joking, right?"

"I'm tied to an apple tree, Dean. I'm not making jokes right now."

"...Does it even count as fertility when it's two guys?"

"I'm trying not to think about that."

Dean let his head thud backward into the apple tree. "Man..."

xxxxx

_Nebraska_

"Dad. It's Sam, and I know you probably don't wanna hear from me, but, uh...it's Dean. H-he's sick, and the doctors say there's nothing they can do... But I'm gonna do whatever it takes to get him better. I swear, Dad, I wouldn't screw this up... Alright. Just...thought you should know. If you even get this."

"Dad, it's Sam again. Dean's okay. Thought you might want to know. Or not. But. He's fine."

xxxxx

_Richardson, Texas_

"That's the symbol of Kronos."

"Who the hell is Kronos?"

"From Greek mythology. And it goes back to alchemy, too—it's the symbol for a heavy metal."

"Heavy met—That's it! I remember where I saw this now. It's the Blue Oyster Cult logo."

"Blue Oyster Cult? Oh. So you think Craig might have had something to do with the Hell House?"

"Let's go find out. And dude—alchemy? _This_ is exactly why you never get laid."

xxxxx

_New Paltz, New York _

"You were totally into that Sarah girl."

"Enough, Dean."

"Come on, this isn't about Jessica, is it? You're not trying the long-distance relationship thing?"

Sam paused for a moment, then continued reorganizing paper. "No, we're... She and Steve started dating a couple of weeks ago."

"Well then...?"

"Just...leave it alone, alright?"

"Fine, fine. So...what's the deal with Old Man Merchant?" Dean tilted his head and wrinkled his nose the portrait. "This is one fugly painting. We should just burn this thing on principle."

xxxxx

_Providence, Rhode island_

"So Gloria really believes what she's saying."

"A hooker named Gloria found the glory of God?"

A sigh. "You mind focusing, Dean?"

"I'm just saying."

"Well, _she's_ saying the guy she killed was guilty. He was marked for punishment by an angel."

"There's no such thing as angels."

"...Yeah. Well, let's talk to people who knew her, see if there might be a restless spirit doing this."

xxxxx

_Springfield, Ohio_

"Dude, 'a belly scale from a crocodile'? Why do you even _know_ that?"

XXXXXXXXXX

It lasted a few, magnificent months. They'd made it into May before Dean woke to the sound of Sam rolling off the bed and cradling his head.

Sam spent the next day sitting in bed, staring at the back of his eyelids while frowning and breathing deeply or something, trying to see something more. Dean paced until he couldn't stand it anymore and asked,

"You see something important?"

Sam opened his eyes slightly and shook his head. "I don't know. I've seen this kid in a vision before, but I still don't know who the hell he is."

"What's he doing?"

"It's...all in pieces. Someone's beating him—he called him 'Dad'."

"The dad's possessed, you think?"

Sam grimaced. "No."

Dean stopped, took a deep breath, and blew it out. "Any idea where?"

"I only saw the inside of the house. No numbers, no address... I don't even know where to start looking."

Three nights later, Sam was shaking him awake, his face pale and hands trembling. "We have to go to Michigan."

By the time they made it to Saginaw, Michigan, paramedics were surrounding the house and a body was being loaded into the ambulance.

"That's him," Sam said hoarsely—from emotion or the headache he was nursing, Dean wasn't sure. "That's the kid from my vision."

"Max Miller," a neighbor said. "His dad and uncle both died just yesterday. Horrible accidents." Sorrowful headshakes. "He didn't take it very well. Kill his stepmother and then himself. And after the way his mother died when he was a baby...poor family."

Sam turned away and exhaled hard. "We're too late."

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter: _

"_Yeah, it flew over here on its own," he scoffed. Dean's eyes snapped to his face and opened wider at that. Sam's jaw dropped. "Whoa. You think_ I_...?" _


	13. Chapter 13

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes:

XXXXXXXXXX

"_If you'd just quit your hand-wringing and open yourself up, you have no idea what you can do. The learning curve is so fast. It's crazy, the switches that just flip in your brain. I can't believe I just started out having dreams_."

_("All Hell Breaks Loose [Part 1")_

XXXXXXXXXX

"So this kid was telekinetic," Dean said.

"Looks that way."

"Like, uh, Jean Grey in X-Men. Except not as hot."

Sam raised his head. "Dean, Max is dead. Show a little respect."

Dean glanced at him from the driver's seat. "Max was a monster, Sam. You said it yourself, he slaughtered his whole family, even if the police don't know that."

He tightened his jaw. "He was desperate."

"Come on, that's not an excuse to start killing people."

"No, it's not an excuse, but it's the reason. And he committed suicide."

"Yeah, _after_ he committed murder. You're not really saying that makes it okay?"

He could still see Max's face in his mind's eye, wet with tears as he begged his father to stop. "He was abused his whole life, Dean, and scared out of his mind. Whatever he was, they made him into that."

Dean was silent for along while. "You know, if this is what normal people are like, man, I'll take our effed up family any day."

"I miss Dad."

Sam wasn't sure why he blurted it out, or which of them was more surprised.

The muscle in Dean's jaw twitched. "We'll find him."

"God. I have to...have to apologize to him. After Mom...if he hadn't started hunting..."

_We could've had Max's childhood_. He shuddered.

"We'll find him."

"Dean, you think, when we find him, he'll even want..." He didn't cut off the question so much as the words dried up. Taking a breath, he tried again. "After I left for Stanford, there was so much we never... And then, when you two showed up there, we didn't even...we never...and then I never even called him after..."

"We'll find him, Sammy. Everything'll work out."

The words were comforting, but he could tell Dean was just saying them. He remembered Joshua's prompting him to dig deeper, to try to identify the faces in his dreams. '_Matt or Max or Mac something_,' he'd said off-handedly. They'd only been a few hours too late for Max. If he'd tried harder back then... Jesus.

"Dean, I was thinking—"

"Well, cut it out."

Sam sighed and forged ahead. "Joshua said I might be able to bring on a vision. You know, instead of just waiting for one to hit."

Dean sounded genuinely confused when he asked, "The hell would you do that for?"

"There were other dreams I've had. Like that guy who shocked a cat to death... Maybe if I try to get more details, we can get there and stop it in time."

"Dude, it's a cat. I mean, I'm sorry for the little critter, but..."

"You think he's gonna stop there? You don't think we should get there before he loses it and moves on to humans? Or himself? We need to save him before that happens."

"How do you know we _can_ save him? If this guy's gonna go cuckoo for cocoa puffs, I don't see that there's a lot we can do to prevent it."

Sam wasn't going to believe that. They _had_ to be able to save this guy. And if they couldn't...

"Either way," he said aloud, "even if we can't save him, we have to stop him before he goes too far."

Dean didn't answer. He didn't speak at all until he'd pulled into a parking space at the first motel he saw. "I'll go get a room. Grab our stuff."

Sam dumped Dean's duffel bag onto the first bed and took the his one with him to the other bed. His brother followed a moment later, tossing his jacket onto a small table in the corner of the room.

Dean claimed the shower first, but before he closed the bathroom door behind him, he said, "We got here as fast as we could, Sam."

"I know," he answered, and waited for Dean to turn away before sinking down onto the bed and dropping his head into his hands.

They hadn't gotten there fast enough. Next time would be different.

As soon as he heard the sound of the shower running, he leaned back against the headboard and closed his eyes. He had to make this work, to know the visions weren't just fucking with him—that he could change things. This had been easier at Smithley Arms with Sam's mind relaxed by herbs and Joshua's voice grounding him. Finding Joshua's presence slipping into his thoughts had gotten easy after the first few tries. Now, Sam tugged on the memory of the vision he'd had of a hesitant young man reaching out to pet a kitten, focusing on the details and trying to find that feeling of _not-quite-right_ that told him it was a vision and not a dream.

He was startled into opening his eyes when Dean walked into the room and slammed the bathroom door shut, saying in warning, "You'd better not be doing what I think you are."

Sam didn't try to deny it. "We can save him."

"We can't save everyone, Sam, you know that."

"No, this is different. We _have_ to save him, Dean, before he starts hurting people. We have to. Because..." He swallowed. "Just because."

_Because it'll mean there's still hope for me._

"We're not having this conversation again," Dean said as he pulled on a shirt, his tone definitive. "I'm getting sick of this." He pulled out his gun and began to disassemble it.

"Look at what Max did, Dean."

"Telekinesis, Sam; he had a weapon. What do you think you're gonna do, huh? Get headaches until people die of sympathy?"

"We don't know if it has to do with our abilities. Maybe that's why the demon chose us, but who knows if it did something else to us that night."

"Uh huh. The devil came and planted the seed of evil in you as a baby."

"Maybe it did! Maybe that's why we—why the other psychics are coming unhinged. Besides," he added, fingering his blade, "if I wanted to kill someone, you think I would need telekinesis to do it?"

Dean slammed his gun back down on the table with a bitten off curse and stood. "You feel like going out a killing someone, Sam?"

"No." Indignant but not backing down.

"Well, be sure to let me know if you do. Now shut. The fuck. Up."

They glared at each other until Dean took a few steps away to kick his bag to the foot of his bed. Sam's own was still sitting on top of the blanket next to him, but he made no move to push it aside, watching Dean prowl around the room instead.

Finally, Dean ran a hand over his still-damp hair and sighed. "Alright. If you want to try this, you do it with _me_ watching. When I say to stop, you damn well stop. And if you black out, I will dump your ass into a bathtub of cold water and take blackmail pictures, you hear me?"

Feeling less triumphant than he'd expected to, Sam nodded. He waited until Dean had settled at the table before saying, "What, are you just gonna stare at me? You're making me nervous."

"Tough," Dean answered, leaning back in the chair.

Sam closed his eyes, pretending Dean's weren't drilling holes into his head.

Thinking back on that other vision, of the young man with black hair and lightning at his fingertips, he called up every detail he could remember. A house with a cat scampering out...a mailbox..._what did it say on the mailbox?..._

But the dreams of Max Miller were still too fresh—an odd thrill ran through Sam's body as images of Max flashed through his mind. The car, doors locked and refusing to open...the knife, suspended in air and rotating slowly before launching itself at a terrified woman...

...And then an odd scene, one he hadn't seen before. Dean, standing protectively in front of the woman while Max advanced toward him, holding a cocked pistol _without actually holding it_...ready to pull the trigger...

There was a twinge of pain in his temple. The thrill he'd felt before suddenly spiked, and then something hard hit him sharply on the shoulder.

"Ow!" he said, snapping his eyes open and sitting up straighter. He rubbed his stinging arm and looked around in confusion, feeling almost buzzed. Dean's gun fell to the carpet beside him with a clatter.

"What the hell, Dean? You threw a _gun_ at me?"

Dean was on his feet, but his eyes were wide, all traces of his usual smirk gone. "Um..."

Confused, Sam asked, "What?"

Dean's eyes flicked between him and the pistol. "I didn't touch the gun."

"Yeah, it flew over here on its own," he scoffed. Dean's eyes snapped to his face and opened wider at that. Sam's jaw dropped. "Whoa. You think _I_...?"

"Well it sure as fuck wasn't me! What the hell were you thinking about, Sam?"

_Oh, God. I'm just like Max_.

"Uh..." He licked his lips, consciously fighting hyperventilation. "I was...back in Max's house, except we were in there with him. He was about to put a bullet in your head."

Dean frowned and crossed his arms and kept staring.

"I just wanted to get the gun away from him," Sam said.

"But that never happened."

_Thanks. I hadn't noticed_.

"Maybe that's what would've happened if we'd gotten there in time."

"You've never done this before?"

"Don't you think I would've mentioned..." he trailed off. Dean had a right to be suspicious—Sam had hidden the visions until everything had blown up in their faces. "No," he amended. "Never."

Dean was still considering something. "Back at Stanford...with the demon. A dresser fell in front of Jessica and me for no reason just before we were about to be barbecued."

Sam didn't remember that part, actually, though there was a hazy memory of Dean and Jess's faces as the fire rushed toward them... "I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"I don't!" he protested. "Things were being tossed around—it could've just fallen over or gotten knocked over. I wasn't thinking about moving it. There was just a lot of fire, and you—and Jess—were going to die, and...I don't fucking_ know_."

Dean's arms came uncrossed and he brought one hand up to rub at his eyes. "Shit, Sam," he said finally. "You had to use my friggin' _gun_? You're lucky the safety's still on."

As if that were the main issue. Sam eyed the pistol and slid a few inches away.

_Stupid. The gun's not the one that did anything._

"I'm calling a stop now, by the way," Dean added.

Sam didn't argue.

Dean stepped out of their room a few hours later. Through the window, Sam heard indistinct talking. He rolled over when he caught a muffled _"...you, Dad. Call us..."_ He clamped a pillow over his ears to block out yet another voicemail message that would go unanswered.

He recognized the picture in the news report when Scott Carey was found dead a week later. An online article said he'd been killed by a mugger, and Sam was guiltily relieved when he couldn't find news of any other unusual deaths in the area, other than the cat. He lingered on the article, frowning. Scott Carey's eyes watched him from the screen, and Sam looked away.

XXXXXXXXXX

The next time Sam tried to force a premonition, he had to wait until Dean had gone out to a bar, looking for locals to hustle. It was getting easier, now that he'd stopped trying to avoid the visions, and it only took a few minutes before the warmth filled his stomach and pain spiked sharply in his temples. Flashes of images began stringing themselves together before his eyes.

"We have to go to Oklahoma," he said when his brother came back. "Something's going to happen there." The pain wasn't as bad anymore. Maybe this was what Joshua had meant by learning to use his ability—it was better than being used _by _it, anyway. It felt good, almost—empowering.

Dean looked up from counting the cash he'd earned. "What'd you see?"

"Two guys: Webber and Andy. They're making people kill themselves just by ordering them to do it."

Dean's gaze was tinged with suspicion. "You got all that this time? Not bits and pieces, like before?"

Sam shrugged. "Maybe it means we're getting closer to finding the demon," he said, knowing it would spur Dean forward.

"Your head okay?"

"It's okay."

"'Cause if it explodes in my car you'll be cleaning out the brains on your own."

"My head isn't going to explode in your car, Dean."

They were driving to Oklahoma an hour later.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Andy got pretty good at mind control," Sam mentioned as they left Andy (who'd been innocent of everything, except recreational drug use, probably) still looking lost as he watched them drive away.

"Yeah, so?"

"I..." Sam hesitated, then shook his head. "Nothing. Just making an observation."

XXXXXXXXXX

He had to wait another few days before he was alone in the motel room for long enough to try again. The last vision had saved Andy's girlfriend, and probably even Andy himself, if his twin was as psycho as he seemed. Maybe it _was_ a gift, after all. Andy certainly saw his abilities that way.

So why shouldn't other abilities be gifts, too? Like telekinesis, say.

He hadn't managed to accomplish anything but a headache by the time Dean sauntered back in, and he pretended to be asleep until he really was, slipping into a dream.

xxxxx

_Sam knew right away that the dream wasn't just a dream. It only took a few seconds' consideration for him to immerse himself deliberately in it. Just as practice, of course. He looked around until he saw someone else standing before him._

_There was something familiar about the man, but Sam knew they'd never met before. There was no way he would have forgotten eyes as yellow as those._

_"Keep going, Sam," the man said. "Let it out."_

_"Dean doesn't think I should," he replied, then frowned. He hadn't meant to say anything. He had to remind himself that this wasn't just any dream that he could manipulate--that this space in his mind wasn't completely his._

_The man shook his head sympathetically. "What will happen if he's in danger? And you know he will be, the way he takes risks all the time. I promise: one day, it'll happen. Will you use your gift to save him?"_

_"Of course," Sam heard himself say. "But I can't do it without practicing."_

_The yellow-eyed man smiled proudly at him. "Sammy. That's my boy."_

xxxxx

Dean was still deep asleep when Sam opened his eyes and sat up. He'd had a dream, he knew, but it was already fading. With a long look at his brother, Sam let his gaze drift to the pillow, not quite knowing exactly why.

It came out of him suddenly, like a punch, surprising a soft gasp from him. The knife tucked under Dean's pillow slid out, and Sam, startled, barely caught the handle with his fingertips before it fell. He stared at it for a moment, then bent to put it back. Dean stirred just as he'd finished replacing the knife under the pillow. Sam froze, inches away from his brother's face.

"Sam? What the hell are you doing?" he mumbled, still half-asleep.

"Nothing," Sam said, backing away. "Sorry. I slipped." He held his breath.

Dean was asleep again within seconds. Sam sat back down on the edge of his bed, finally exhaling in shaky relief. He could do this, after all. He just needed practice.

There had to be something else he could use.

There was a spoon on the table where Dean had been sitting.

Dean would get a kick out of this.

Or, actually, he'd probably kick Sam's ass.

With a final nervous glance around, he picked it up and started to practice.

XXXXXXXXXX

"Did you sleep at all?" Dean asked when the sun rose the next morning. "Hey!"

"Hm?" Sam blinked and looked up when fingers snapped under his nose.

"Normal people sleep at night. It's part of the whole not being dead routine."

"I slept," he answered defensively. "I'm fine, don't worry." He didn't feel tired at all, actually—a little high on adrenaline, more like.

"Whatever, dude, I'm not worried. If you fall asleep while we're staking out this monster, whatever it is, I'm not hauling your heavy ass out of there, that's all I'm saying."

"You know, I looked over some more reports before you woke," Sam said. "Animal control found someone's lost, rabid pet dog and they're thinking that was it. False alarm." People always assumed it was some lost animal; this time, it just happened to be true.

"So it's just a pet dog," Dean said flatly. "That sucks."

"But listen, I found something last night—"

"While you shoulda been sleeping," Dean grumbled.

"—about people suddenly changing in personality and then committing crimes that no one would have believed of them before."

"They could just be criminals." Devil's advocate—it was an important role that one of them had to play, because being wrong could mean anything from their arrest to an innocent civilian's getting staked. This time, though, Sam knew he wasn't wrong.

"Or they could be possessed. There are other signs, too; take a look for yourself." He turned the laptop toward his brother.

Dean skimmed the article, then stuffed a last, rolled-up shirt into his bag. "Okay, then. We'll check it out."

XXXXXXXXXX

___From the next chapter:_

___Dean furrowed his brow. "That's...the stupidest thing you've ever said, since at least this morning," he said bluntly. "The cops don't usually work the werewolf angle, dumbass."_

___"Not the cops," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "But we both jumped to that conclusion pretty fast."_

___"Because we're hunters and more awesome than the cops," Dean said. And then, "You think it was expecting hunters."_


	14. Chapter 14

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: Yes, a few case facts have been changed. Again, it's not huge, and again, I'm pulling the "this is AU" card.

XXXXXXXXXX

_"I thought they were extinct. I thought Elkins and others had wiped them out. I was wrong." _

_("Dead Man's Blood") _

XXXXXXXXXX

It was a year after Dean pulled Sam from his dormitory at Stanford, and things were...fine. Kinda. And kinda, you know, not. Something was going on with Sam.

Most of the time, nothing seemed wrong. Sam bitched at him to focus on the case; Dean deliberately ogled a passing waitress, just to piss him off. Dean leaned casually against a door to hide Sam's crouching form until the lock was picked. Sam angsted; Dean rolled his eyes. Dean pinned someone to the ground, squirting holy water; Sam rattled off an exorcism and then gently directed the liberated host to the nearest therapist.

Actually, that last part was getting pretty common. Not the therapy; the exorcisms, and if the Devil's Trap that Bobby had taught them negated the need to restrain the demon during the ritual, well, it made the taunting easier and a lot more fun. Half their nights were spent replenishing stores of holy water and studying rituals. Dean never asked his brother about that day in church at Stanford, when Sam had panicked about being unable to bless the water—faith wasn't something he wanted to talk out, and besides, Sam didn't seem to have that same problem anymore.

And it wasn't that Dean had anything against sending demonic sons of bitches to hell. But it was weird to be finding so many all of a sudden. And that brought him back around to Sam and whatever was going on in his freaky head.

The text-message coordinates they'd gotten at first had stopped altogether; they were both thinking it, but, thank hell, even Sam seemed leery of trying to broach that topic most days. Sam had been finding most of the hunts recently, faster than Dean in flipping to the right page of the newspaper or catching the odd nuances in some news anchor's story that anyone else would have missed the first time around. It sort of stung, but, to be fair, Sam had always liked piecing a story together, _and_ he was still having occasional freaky vision-nightmares, clearer than they had been before, which pretty much sucked. Dean figured he'd just be happy as long as he got the kill the thing. Except killing usually wasn't allowed with demons, especially with Sam giving him those wide _show-a-little-sympathy-here_ eyes. Dean did have sympathy. He just thought it was better to knock a person out than to tussle with a struggling body throughout an exorcism, as if it hurt the host any less.

And these days...while day-to-day life was normal, it felt like Sam was hiding something. Dean got the feeling the visions were coming more often than he thought; his brother was certainly less forthcoming about those. He suspected that was probably how Sam always seemed to know where to start digging through the obits, and it explained the headaches that were still a little too frequent to account for otherwise. But that was...not okay, but not horrible, either. At least Sam wasn't talking about trying to encourage all the psychic stuff, anymore, and even the headaches were manageable.

But recently, Sam on a hunt was a little...intense. Not _scary_, exactly. Not a lot qualified as _scary intense_ after having hunted with John Winchester.Maybe that was what was weird. He had a hard time thinking of Sam—who loved homework more than bow hunting—being so adamant about this business. When they were on the job, his brother was more confident hunter now than sullen geek—so much more like Dad than like Sammy that Dean found himself having to give orders less and trusting easily when Sam barked at him to _'move, Dean, it's right there'_ or to _'crush that, that's the source of its power_.'

That was what they'd hoped for, right, him and Dad? He and Sam had been a good team even when they'd been younger and Sam unwilling. Now, the two of them together could give most hunters a run for their money. If he was handing the reins over to his little brother once in a while, well, they both had their strengths, and knowing without doubt that his partner had his back was pretty awesome.

So, yeah. It was what he'd always wanted. It was fine. Great. Really.

Sam was still waiting in the passenger seat when Dean walked back to the car with take-out breakfast.

"When did you start drinking this crap?" Dean asked, wrinkling his nose at Sam's drink, something that sounded and smelled like it had more sugar and cream than coffee.

"Shut up," Sam said without heat but didn't answer. "I got a call just now. From Isaac King; we met him at Harvelle's, remember?"

"Him and Tamara, right," Dean said warily. Not that he'd disliked the couple (he still couldn't get over the husband/wife hunting deal—he wasn't sure if it'd be awesome or terrifying to do the job side by side with a spouse), but he was always a little antsy in the Roadhouse. Too many people with concealed weapons and the know-how to use them. And too many seemed to know more about him and Sam than the reverse. "What'd they want? And hey, why're they calling _you_?"

"They called me because they like me better than you. And they heard about some suspicious deaths in Colorado, and they're working a job in New England at the moment, so..." He raised his eyebrows expectantly.

"Why us?" Dean asked.

"They know about the demon we took care of back in early October, and they heard about that one on the plane, too." Dean grimaced at the thought of that one, covering by tossing an empty bag into the back seat. "I don't know why you're so suspicious of them."

"You don't trust them either—I can tell."

Sam glanced at him. "I don't actively _dis_trust them. It might do us some good to know other people who could teach us a few things."

"Dad taught us more than they _know_, Sam, before you even started high school."

"Everyone misses a trick or two. I didn't know about holy wood, and I know you didn't either."

Dean thought that not making a comment about holy wood was a pretty admirable feat.

"Yeah, well. We don't need anyone else sniffing around our business. We've survived without them on our own our whole lives."

"Not on our own," Sam said tightly. "Until now, we've had Dad."

Dean took a quick gulp of his coffee. It turned out that _that_ was pretty stupid considering how hot it was, but choking on the heat while trying not to spill the coffee took long enough for him to be able to avoid answering Sam without fumbling for a distraction. "Well, we can't be the only demon hunters they know."

"But we are the closest ones, and we've got a good reputation." Dean knew he wasn't imagining the pride infusing those words. "You're being irrational."

Dean set down the coffee, swallowed the last mouthful of his breakfast, and started the engine. "Your face is irrational," he replied lamely, making Sam snort in amused disdain..

"So are we going or not?"

"Yeah, yeah, we're going."

Sam liked to surround himself with friends; always had as a kid, every time they'd moved somewhere new. This was probably just his attempt at fitting in. Dean knew he should be glad, since it meant Sam was starting to think of himself as one of them, but there was something subtly forced in his interactions with other hunters; it was the same way he talked to witnesses when they were on a case, gaining their confidence but holding back.

Well, good. There was a lot about them—and about Sam—that they had to hold back. Hunters talked. If their brief visits to the Roadhouse had taught them anything, it was that, and he sure as hell didn't want them talking about Sam. And besides, sometimes Dean wished his brother _didn't _have to feel like he belonged in a roomful of trackers and killers.

"You know what would make us move faster, Dean?"

"Shut up," he said, shifting into gear and taking his baby and his baby brother toward Colorado.

XXXXXXXXXX

They spent a few hours chatting casually and hustling pool at a bar in Manning, Colorado before heading back to find a motel room.

"You did look into this after Isaac called you, right?" Dean said, flopping heavily onto his bed. "We're not just here on hearsay?"

"Well..."

Dean groaned. "Sam..."

Sam held his hands in the air. "I looked up some local news stories. There's definitely something here. Just..." He frowned, dropping more slowly into a chair. "I'm not sure it's a demon, like Isaac thought."

"Then what?"

He shook his head. "The man who was murdered...it sounds like he was ripped apart by an animal. Or animals."

Dean glanced up automatically at the night sky, where the full moon was partially obscured by clouds. "This happened a week and a half ago...so, not a werewolf."

"Yeah, that was my first guess, too. Whatever did it tore out his heart, though. Along with some limbs and...you get the idea."

Interest peaked, Dean thought that over. "So some creature with a similar M.O.?"

"Or," Sam ventured hesitantly, "something that wanted it to look like a werewolf attack to anyone investigating."

He furrowed his brow. "That's...the stupidest thing you've ever said, since at least this morning," he said bluntly. "The cops don't usually work the werewolf angle, dumbass."

"Not the cops," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "But _we_ both jumped to that conclusion pretty fast."

"Because we're hunters and more awesome than the cops," Dean said. And then, "You think it was expecting hunters." Sam raised an eyebrow. "They did a shitty job of it, then. It wasn't even full moon."

"It was kind of close."

"Not close enough. Anyone with a handful of brain cells would see through it."

"Did it fool you, then?"

Dean scowled. "Cute. Don't quit your day job."

"Why not? I don't get paid for it."

"Yeah, which makes my poker skills your main source of income, which you'd lose if you quit your day job."

"Whatever," Sam said. "Anyway, the rest of the attack was clumsy, too. Supposedly, the attacker got in through a broken window, but the security system never went off—it was _disarmed_ first, by someone with tools. And opposable thumbs. And...I got into the police records—look at these pictures."

Dean reluctantly heaved himself up to look at the grisly image on the laptop. An old man—around 70 years old, he estimated, maybe 80—stared back with eyes wide and glazed in death. Passing a practiced eye over the picture, he suddenly frowned and bent closer. "The chest wound—it's too messy, even for a werewolf. Usually they only take one swipe to open the chest," he said.

"Exactly. Whatever did this didn't have quite that level of brute strength but definitely took the 'ripping' idea pretty seriously." Sam grimaced. "There aren't really any bite marks, either--a few puncture wounds, but that's it."

Dean straightened. "What the hell, man?"

"It's not just a mindless creature, that's for sure. I guess that's why Isaac and Tamara thought about demons."

"There are other things that I'd classify as intelligent besides demons," Dean pointed out. Sometimes he even put humans in that category. "This isn't enough evidence to make that leap."

"Isaac and Tamara are always thinking about demons."

That was true enough, and with the way people whispered about how they got into hunting, it was understandable. It didn't mean they shouldn't consider all the possibilities. "A demon could have done this," he admitted. "But it seems almost too inept. And strength isn't usually an issue for them." Dean paced a few steps, then shook his head. "No. You know what I think? I don't think they were trying to fool anyone. I think they were just confusing their trail with whatever bullshit evidence was easiest to place."

Sam considered. "Maybe. It's working."

"Yeah, we know it's not a werewolf, but there's nothing to tell us what it _is_."

"But why would they even think about hunters finding them? They could've just made it look like a normal murder scene."

"Yeah. What was the name of this guy, the victim?"

"Someone...uh, Elkins, I think."

Dean stopped short. "Seriously?"

"Uh..." Sam minimized a few windows to reveal the article he'd mentioned. "Yeah, Daniel Elkins. Why?"

Dean was already pulling out Dad's journal and flipping through to that page..._there_. He looked at Sam over the top of the book. "Dad knew a D. Elkins."

Sam walked over to read over his shoulder. "Huh," he said. "You think it's the same guy?"

Dean shrugged. "One way to find out."

XXXXXXXXXX

"This guy was definitely a serious player," Sam conceded as they took in the salt on the floor and the weapons scattered around. "I think he was Dad's Elkins."

"Still doesn't explain what the hell did this," Dean returned, rifling through the scattered items on a desk. A box sat on top, and he lifted the lid to find it empty of the revolver it must have held once. Other papers were spread around, several sheets having spilled to the floor. Dean recognized a few of the symbols scribbled on them, but the unfamiliarity of others reminded him of how much they still didn't know.

"Yeah," Sam said, eyes eerily alert in the dim beams of light. He moved his flashlight along the bookshelves, pulling a few out to peer at the titles, then picked up a bound book, flipping through quickly. "It's a journal. Like Dad's, but going back a lot further to...geez. This guy's been hunting since the '60s, at least." His head jerked up suddenly, and he cocked his head.

"Sam?"

"Dean, down!"

Trusting instinctively, Dean ducked low and found cover behind a desk, peering out through the door they'd left ajar and listening intently. He couldn't hear anything, but a few seconds later he saw the headlights of a truck moving away. Sam stood. "Sorry. I thought someone...never mind. Just...sounded familiar. False alarm," he said, turning back to Elkins' belongings. Dean rolled his eyes and did the same.

"Your ESP acting up again?" he quipped.Sam only looked at him and shrugged, his focus already returning to Elkins' belongings. Dean moved back to the spot where Elkins' body had been found, looking for clues to what the were dealing with. "Huh," he said when his light caught on marks on the hardwood floor

"What? You found something?"

Squatting low, he studied the indentations. "Scratches," he said. "This is where the body was found, right?"

"Death throes, maybe?"

Dean ran a careful finger over the marks. "No, they look like they were carved in with a knife."

Sam had stepped over now, too, his movements careful to avoid disturbing anything or standing in Dean's limited light. "You think he was trying to die here? So someone would find it?"

"I don't think the guy was trying to die, Sam."

"You know what I mean."

He reached up. "Here, give me a paper and a pencil."

It didn't take long to see what Elkins had left behind. "A mail drop," Sam said, holding the pencil rubbing. "You think we should...?"

Dean pushed himself upright and snatched the paper back from his brother. "I think we should."

XXXXXXXXXX

"J.W.," Sam read. "You don't think...John Winchester?"

Both of them jumped at a sharp tapping on Dean's window. Sam's knife was in his hand and he was reaching for the spare pistol under the seat. Dean raised one hand to the ignition while his other scrabbled for his own weapon.

The figure outside the window was mostly hidden in shadow, but the stance was unmistakable. Dean recognized him even as Sam whispered, "_Dad?_"

Without a word, John Winchester opened a door and slipped in the backseat. And with the protective symbols and Devil's Traps Sam had placed strategically around the car—to keep things in, granted, but it would work the other way, too—they both knew for certain it was really their father.

Dean finally found his voice again. "Dad? What are... Are you okay?"

"I'm fine, son," John said, and Dean would never admit how much he wanted to close his eyes and sag in relief at the sound.

Sam, on the other hand, wasn't moving. He hadn't even turned—he slouched in his seat, eyes fixed on the envelope in his lap. It would have looked like he was ignoring them, except that Dean could see two fingers of his right hand hooked around the grip of his pistol, as if he'd simply frozen halfway through the motion and then stopped completely.

A year ago, they'd driven away from Stanford with Sam's absence larger than either of them was willing to acknowledge. John had watched Dean walk out of the dormitory building and get in the car alone, tightened his jaw, and driven away. He'd given Dean the keys to the Impala just a few days later and left. Disobedience, from both of them, simultaneously. And the fallout—part of Dean had been waiting for it since then.

But they'd been looking for him for months—for over a year. And now, the three of them, together at last... That had to be worth something.

"Dad, where have you... I mean, how d'you find us?"

"Not now, Dean. It's not safe out here."

With those words, Dean remembered they were on a case—that their dad knew the man who'd been killed. That their dad would know what to do next. "Dad, Daniel Elkins...he was—"

"I know," John interrupted. "That's why I'm here. I've been watching you two since you broke into his house."

"Why didn't you tell us?"

"You know why. I had to make sure you were covering your tracks. Making sure you weren't followed. Now, I should look at that letter." John held out his hand, and when neither of them moved, he said, more sharply, "Sam!"

Sam jumped, a "Yessir" stumbling out of his mouth, and he fumbled for a moment before freeing his hands enough to pick up the Elkins' envelope. Dean watched him closely, noting how he twisted around to pass it back but never lifted his face, turning back quickly and sinking low in the seat. John quickly extracted the letter and began to skim through it. Sam's eyes were wide and uncertain and fixed on Dean's, his muscles tense. Dean schooled his own features and looked back, giving a quick nod. As if that were the signal he'd been waiting for, Sam took a deep breath and opened his clenched fists, looking away before nodding back.

"Sonuvabitch," John breathed from the backseat. "He had it the whole time. Dean"—Sam twitched—"did you see an old gun in there? A Colt revolver. It would have looked like an antique."

"There was a case," Dean remembered, "but it was empty."

John slammed a hand lightly into the door next to him. "They must have taken it."

"Who?" Dean asked, feeling completely lost. "Whatever killed Elkins? What are they? And what's with the gun?"

The back door opened and their father stepped out. "Not now. We need to get somewhere secure to talk."

"We've got a room," Sam spoke up, surprising them both.

John paused for a few seconds, staring past Dean at his youngest son. Finally, he nodded and said, his voice gruff, "We'll meet there."

There was a moment, as his father made his way back to his truck, when Dean thought he understood why Sam always complained about being left in the dark.

He killed that thought quickly.

Dad had his reasons. They'd trusted him for a year; they wouldn't stop now.

"You gonna be okay, Sam?" he asked before starting off toward the motel, their father's truck a short distance behind them.

"Yeah," Sam replied softly. "I can't believe we've... Just..."

"Hey," he interrupted. "I know."

"He didn't say anything about...Dean, what if he's still mad?"

"He's not mad," Dean said, glad that his voice came out more certain than he felt. "It'll all be fine. You'll see."

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_John shook his head. "Most of vampire lore is crap. Sunlight will only give them a bad sunburn. The only way to kill them is to cut off their heads."_

_Dean grinned at the thought. "Well, hell, you know I'm in."_


	15. Chapter 15

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: Oh, dear. Another John/Sam/Dean scene—can we avoid a confrontation? And how much trouble do I have with those scenes? I'll give you a clue: I have a lot of trouble.

XXXXXXXXXX

_"Yeah, well maybe that worked when we were kids, but not anymore, alright? Not after everything you and I have been through, Dean. I mean, are you telling me you're cool with just falling into line and letting him run the whole show?"_

_"...If that's what it takes."_

_("Dead Man's Blood")_

XXXXXXXXXX

"Vampires?"

"They're real," John assured. "And they're nasty."

Dean had never figured out just how his father managed to tower over both of his kids even when they stood while he sat. It was a normal configuration for them, Dad paging through sheets of gathered intel even as he filled them in on a case. There was no crap among the three of them about stand at attention or saluting, but there was also no doubt which of them was the commander here. Dean didn't mind being relegated to a subordinate again.

Okay, so it had been good to be working just with his brother, as an equal (and since he would never not be the oldest, he totally got last say, which was pretty sweet). But part of him that he'd pushed aside a year ago was practically quivering with anticipation at being second-in-command to his dad again, not in charge but trusted to do his part. It would be nice to be able to drop the responsibility that came with calling the shots. It would.

If there was another part that was reluctant to break the rhythm he'd established with his brother...well, he made that part shut up. This was _Dad_. They'd been hoping for this all year.

Sam might not agree. One look at his brother told Dean that he wasn't okay with this situation, not at all. He was practically quivering, too—though not with eagerness—but he'd stayed respectfully quiet so far. Well, silent, really, but still. Better than yelling. Gift horses, Dean reminded himself. He wished Sam would stop slouching, though, and just act a little more focused until this hunt was over. Whatever was going to blow up here could wait until after they'd killed the...

_Vampires. Seriously...vampires?_

"You'd think we'd've noticed Dracula stalking the streets at night," Dean commented.

"They look just like humans, most of the time, and they're almost extinct," John said. "In fact, I thought they _were_ extinct, until Daniel..." John sighed, and Dean noticed for the first time how tired the man looked. "I've been in contact with other hunters, and they told me about his death. I heard you two were out here covering the case."

"Why'd they go after him?" Sam spoke up, and some of the tension trickled out of Dean to hear the alertness in his brother's tone. "It wasn't a random attack."

John barely paused before answering, "Daniel Elkins was a good hunter, and a good man. He taught me everything I know about fangs. The best vampire hunter of his time. They must have known hunters would hear and come looking around."

"Wait, he wasn't still hunting them, was he?" Dean asked. Elkins had been _old_, more than any active hunter Dean had ever seen. Which meant the man knew his stuff, but Jesus...he suppressed a shudder at the thought of making it to old age like that.

"Daniel had been laying low for years—not quite in hiding, but keeping off the radar. I thought he'd just gone into retirement—" (which, whoa, Dean had never thought of happening with a hunter)—"but that wasn't it. He knew they'd want him dead—knew they'd want the Colt."

"The Colt?" Dean repeated. "That old revolver you were talking about? Why?"

"Yes," John said simply, pointedly not answering the question. "We've got to pick up their trail."

Sam stilled. "You want us to come with you?"

"We can help, Dad," Dean said quickly, not sure whether he was trying to stave off John's protest or Sam's argument. He needn't have worried, though.

"I'll need it," John told them. "We have to get that gun, and taking it back from under their noses won't be easy."

"So we can't just draw them out somewhere where sunlight will hit them?" Sam asked, wheels clearly whirring in his head.

John shook his head. "Most of vampire lore is crap. Sunlight will only give them a bad sunburn. The only way to kill them is to cut off their heads."

Dean grinned at the thought. "Well, hell, you know I'm in."

"Hold on," Sam cautioned. "How many are we talking about?"

"A lot," John answered. "Vampires almost never travel alone, especially now that there are so few of them left. And if they dared to pull something like this on a hunter like Daniel...we'll have to assume we're walking into a full nest. Ten, maybe a dozen."

"So...walking in probably isn't the best option."

"Actually," John said, a feral gleam lighting his eyes, "that's exactly what we're going to do. We'll need to cover our scent, though, in case they went back to Daniel Elkins' place; they can track by smell like bloodhounds."

Dean exchanged a look with Sam. Sam tilted his head thoughtfully as Dean smirked. "Tiptoe through the daisies it is," he said. Sam raised his eyebrows at him.

"If that's what you call it, Dean, then I don't know what you think you've been tiptoeing through all these years, but they probably weren't daisies."

"Bloodsucking, supernaturally strong daisies with noses like bloodhounds," he amended. Sam snorted.

Both of them seemed to remember at the same time that their father was in the room and turned to look back at him. John was staring at them, though the stony expression he wore wasn't one of anger, or even impatience. Uncomfortable trying to decipher it, Dean asked, "So, um. When're we going?" Sam looked away and cleared his throat.

John dropped his eyes down to his papers and shuffled them for no apparent reason before looking back at them, his face once again the composed, confident hunter's. "We'll wait 'til around noon. They sleep during the day, but that doesn't mean they won't wake up—I want the sun as high as possible in case they do." He stood and said, "There're a few hours left before daybreak. Get some rest."

"Yessir," Dean said, but he remained where he was.

He shifted awkwardly in place. Sam and John hadn't moved. John's gaze was fixed on Sam and Sam's on the floor, and Jesus Christ, this as was starting to look like a goddamn repeat of that day at Stanford...

No. Not a repeat. It was different now. After a year—after everything—it had to be different.

"Sam," John started, then stopped. Dean watched him warily, knowing what his job was if they got in each other's faces—again—but disconcerted in the face of his father's uncertainty.

Sam looked up, and Dean realized the tension he'd seen earlier wasn't anger at all. His brother's stance was like that of a twelve-year-old Sam, eyes moist and head hanging after his first hunt gone sour, not the bold, stubborn twenty-year-old hunter Dean had become accustomed to. That fallout that never happened...Sam had been waiting for it, too. Finally, he wet his lips and said, "Yeah, Dad."

"The last time we saw each other, we..." John sighed and rubbed distractedly at his forehead. "This was never the life I wanted for you. Or you, Dean," he added, including Dean in his gaze. "I wish to hell neither of you had to go through all this. You should have gone to college, should have grown up with a home. With...with a mother."

Sam's eyes were assessing and confused, not quite comprehending.

Dean understood, though—he'd been the guardian of his baby brother's innocence until there'd been no choice but to explain. Sam didn't remember that time when their dad had been something more than a drill sergeant. Dean still held a few memories of John Winchester's carefree, _happy_ face smiling at him as he played, and he knew their dad hadn't chosen this life any more than Sam. Now, with Dean and Sam both grown and past the age when they could hide from the monsters in the dark...there was no going back, and sometimes he thought he would sell his soul if it could buy that peace of mind back.

"Then why..." Sam started, then cleared his throat. "Why'd you get so mad when I wanted to stop hunting?"

John shook his head. "I lost sight of it, Sammy. After your mother died and I started hunting...I..." He laughed, soft and ironic. "I forgot. I forgot what it was like to do anything else, and I forgot that you might want something...different from what I wanted for you. You have to understand. That demon took my life away from me, and all I had left was you boys. I didn't even stop to think that you could still have the life you wanted."

Sam looked up sharply, pain written into his face. "Not anymore," he corrected. "The demon's taken too much. I can't want that life. Not anymore."

Dean's jaw tightened. _'I can't want...'_ Part of Sam still did want to go to college and leave hunting behind, but it wasn't possible. He knew—all of them knew it. _Not anymore_.

"I'm sorry, Sammy," John said, the words stiff but sincere. He lifted his hand hesitantly, as if unsure of what to do with it. Sam let out a shaky breath and stepped forward, and then they were embracing. They clung to one another as more than just father and son—as two men fighting together, and with an ache, Dean realized that he couldn't remember the last time his father and brother had shared a hug before Sammy had become a soldier in this war.

"It's been too long," John breathed when the broke apart. "My boys." He reached to Dean, then, who clasped his arm in camaraderie and stepped in to wrap his other arm around his father's neck.

"Good to see you again, Dad," he said, not caring about how tight his voice was. John pushed away gently and held him at arms length, searching his face. What he saw must have satisfied him, because he gave a tiny smile and a single nod. Dean stood straighter.

"You boys are both all right?"

"Yessir."

The moment when the three of them all untangled themselves was, by Dean's standards, supremely awkward.

"So," he said, after an appropriately uncomfortable number of seconds, "I'll move my stuff off that bed and share with Sam."

Normal protocol, when they stayed in a room with two beds. It had been so long—more than a year, before Sam had left for college—since he'd had to think about it. It was weird how something so tiny could make everything feel so right.

He and Sam kicked and shoved continuously at each other once they'd settled in (because dude, Sam's legs were freakishly long and clumsy and the motel beds weren't exactly the biggest in the world), and even the furiously whispered arguments couldn't wipe the grin from his face. Even the fact that they were about to walk into a next of vampires the next day...

He smothered a laugh.

"What?" Sam hissed. "I'm trying to sleep, here."

"Vampires." He chuckled again. "Gets funnier every time I think of it."

Sam snarled quietly and pushed him off the bed.

XXXXXXXXXX

Dean had nothing against plans. In fact, he even came up with plans sometimes. Sam really liked the whole organized thing, but Dean didn't mind it either, especially if it involved something blowing up at one point or another. And, okay, sneaking around a dark warehouse at high noon didn't sound that exciting, but no one could deny that sneaking around the sleeping vampires_ was_ a pretty big adrenaline rush.

Still, there was that little problem about plans never really working.

But hey, this time it wasn't even his fault. Sam was the one who decided to poke at a goddamn sleeping vampire.

"You know," Dean told him as they fled into the sunlit clearing, "there's a trick to tiptoeing through bloodsucking, supernaturally strong daisies..."

"Shut up," Sam snapped from beside him.

"...you're supposed to fucking tiptoe."

"How the hell was I supposed to know she'd been turned?" Sam asked, panting slightly from the run. "You would've done the same."

_True_, Dean thought. But the point was that he hadn't, so it was still totally Sam's fault.

Their dad joined them a few seconds later, his face darkened with rage, and both of them sobered. "What was that?" he growled, stalking toward them.

"Dad..."

"Get in the car," he ground out. "Back to the motel."

Terrific. This would be fun.

XXXXXXXXXX

"I almost had it," John told them. "It was in my hand when... What happened to providing backup?"

Sam flinched a little but jutted his chin out. "There was a girl they'd taken prisoner," he defended. "I wanted to get her out of there—"

"They'd already turned her!"

"Well, I know that now!"

"Why would you even _consider _doing something like that?"

Their dad's voice was at a shout now, with Sam's rising to meet it. "She was tied to a post and covered in blood! Was I supposed to leave her there?"

"Covered in blood, Samuel!" John roared. "In a vampire nest! That on its own should have told you she'd been turned!"

"How, Dad?" Sam's words were low, now, and furious. "How was I supposed to know that? You said vampire lore was all wrong; we had nothing to go on. For all we knew, the undead didn't even have blood. We went in on _your_ word, looking for a gun that _you_ said was important without explaining why, and tried to face off with a pack of creatures _you've_ never told us about."

"What are you trying to say?"

"You can't keep treating us like this!"

"Like what, Samuel?"

Dean edged forward. "Sam..."

"Like children!" Sam burst out over him. "You won't tell us shit, and you expect us to _obey_ you without question!"

"You _are _my children! I'm trying to protect you, but if I say I need you to watch my back, that means you suck it up and keep the goddamn monsters _off my back_! Or is that too much for you to handle?"

"Well, make up your mind, Dad, 'cause if you keep trying to protect your _sons_ by hiding the truth, and then send us out to fight like your soldiers, sooner or later someone's gonna get killed!"

"Sam, stop it!" Dean shouted, angry himself now, shoving them apart. "I've had it! I'm sick of you two always at each other's throats. What is wrong with you?"

Sam had the grace to look ashamed. John still looked livid. He nodded and started to turn away, saying, "You need to keep your brother in line, Dean."

Fire snapped back into Sam's eyes at that. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? After everything we've been through. We just fall into line and let you run the whole show."

Dean found himself saying, "And I was talking to you, too, Dad."

John stopped and turned back. "Excuse me?"

For an instant, Dean was frozen in place, John in front of him and Sam at his side, almost unable to believe that he'd openly contradicted his father.

When he recovered the ability to speak, he said, "We've been looking for you for a year, Dad. We've been running for months on nothing but trust in _you_ and hope that you weren't lying dead somewhere. You gotta throw us a bone here. Please." He heard the pleading note in his words and carefully cleared his expression. "Sir."

John grimaced. "I'm trying to protect you and your brother, son," he repeated.

Dean swallowed. "Protect us? You drove across who knows how many states for Elkins but the best you could do for us was a couple of text messages. We needed you, Dad; I called you when Sammy was in the emergency room, and you _knew_ what was going and couldn't give enough of a damn to call us yourself. I know Sam called you when I was _dying_ in Nebraska." His voice was shaking now, but he couldn't stop. "And then you just stopped contacting us. I know you could've, Dad—you had our numbers, and obviously you didn't have a problem keeping up with other hunters." He turned away, avoiding Sam's sympathetic look. "I—we needed you," he said again.

Their father was silent. Dean didn't look up to see what expression he was wearing.

Then Dean felt a surreptitious hand at the small of his back—offering or seeking strength he didn't know—before Sam spoke from beside him, quieter now, but no less forceful. "If you say this gun is so important, then we believe you. But you have to give us something. Sir. We can't take things just on faith, isn't that what you taught us?" There was something bitter in his words, and they both knew John would hear it, too—Sam used his weapons well, including words.

When Dean was sure his expression was neutral, he looked back up, to where John stood with his back to them. He'd placed his hands flat on the desk and leaned on them, head hanging and eyes closed.

"This isn't just your battle, Dad," Dean added. Then, more terrified of saying the words than he'd ever been of a monster, he said, "She was our mom, too. This demon's hurt all of us."

"Dean. This fight won't be an easy one. I can't ask you to—"

"You don't have the right to stop us," Sam interrupted, his tone unrelenting. "It came for me when I was a baby, it found me at college—it almost killed Dean there, for God's sake! And now it's flipped this switch on in my head, and it's making me watch people die..." He exhaled hard. John had turned and was watching him without comment. Their father knew about the visions, but Dean suspected he didn't have a clue about the kind of toll it was taking on Sam--on both of them. "We have a right to this, Dad. If you don't let us help you...we're not going to stop looking for it."

John's eyes flicked to Dean at that. Dean didn't meet his glance but didn't move from Sam's side, either.

After several tense moments, John sighed heavily and asked, "You boys really want to know about this gun we're after?"

Dean's eyes sought out Sam, who shifted and glanced back, his expression somehow still making him seem to be looking up despite the height difference. "Yes, sir," Dean answered for both of them.

John nodded, his head down, before looking up and standing straight. "I may have found a way to kill the demon," he began. "Not just exorcize it, but really kill it—forever." He took a breath. "Back in 1835, they say Samuel Colt made a gun..."

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_Raising his free hand, Dean slowly lowered his blade to the ground, only to hear a click behind him, accompanying the uncomfortably familiar pressure of a gun against his back._

_"Whoops," the female vampire whispered in his ear. "Did you lose your blade?"_


	16. Chapter 16

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Mostly gen.

Notes:

XXXXXXXXXX

_"When were you going to tell me about this?...Something like this starts happening to your brother, you pick up the phone and you call me."_

_("Salvation")_

XXXXXXXXXX

This time, the plan worked.

Or, anyway, they got the gun and got out of there alive without any vampires on their trail. That was, unfortunately, where the good news ended.

The bad news... Oh yeah. There was bad news.

They'd lured the pack leader out using his lover, weakened by dead man's blood. While Sam and Dean waited in hiding, their scent covered by ashes that fucking _reeked_ (no wonder they called it skunk cabbage), John had almost grabbed the Colt and left without a hitch. They'd underestimated, however, the regenerative capacity of vampires. And then everything exploded...

...only to end in a standoff against the last two remaining fangs.

Dean raised his machete only to find Sam caught in the leader's headlock. John was several feet away but had been disarmed.

And the undead bitch was picking the Colt up from the ground, fondling it tauntingly. "Lost something, babe? It's pretty, isn't it, Luthor?" she purred at the leader."He'll be happy with us for giving it to him."

"Who?" John said, his voice steely. "Who's asking for the gun?"

"Why should I tell you, sweetheart?" she teased. Dean inched forward.

"Put the blade down," Luthor warned him, tightening his grip, "or I'll break his neck." Sam's eyes bugged wider.

Dean had no illusions about how this worked. He moved, Sam died. He put down his weapon, Sam died. But it might buy some time for...

For what?

Sam made a choked, gasping noise, making the other fang giggle.

Jesus. Time—they just needed time. They'd figure out what to do with it later.

Raising his free hand, Dean slowly lowered his blade to the ground, only to hear a _click_ behind him, accompanying the uncomfortably familiar pressure of a gun against his back.

"Whoops," the female vampire whispered in his ear. "Did you lose your blade, too?"

A wordless growl sounded from his dad's direction, and Luthor told him nonchalantly, "Don't worry, Winchester. We'll get to you next. In fact, I think this one's almost had it."

Fixing his eyes back on Sam, he saw his brother's arms slack, no longer struggling, with his eyes closed. "Sam?" Dean called.

God, no.

"Sammy, answer me," he said, his voice harsh. Luthor laughed and shifted his grip casually. Sam didn't move. "Sam! Let him go, you filthy animal," Dean hissed.

"I don't think so," Luthor said coldly. "You people.We have the right to live, too. We would've left Elkins alone if we didn't need the gun."

"The fuck do you want with it?"

"We're a dying breed.We were promised protection in return for it." He looked down at Sam's slack face. "Sorry about that, kid."

"You fucking bastard, I'm gonna kill you and every one of—"

And then Sam's eyes snapped wide open.

Even for the dark, Dean could see his pupils were blown, devouring the color in his irises, but there was no time to think about that because the vampire behind him _screeched_. The gun on his back was suddenly gone and hurtling through the air toward his dad. It wasn't perfect aim, but John's normally sharp reflexes were even more honed by the thrill and terror of the hunt. He dove to the side and caught the Colt in his hand.

"What the—"

_Don't think. Act.Now_.

Dean threw himself to the ground and retrieved his machete, rolling to avoid the bitch's kick as he came to his feet. She was holding one hand strangely, like it didn't work properly, but holy shit, the other one worked fine. It took a bit of maneuvering, but he finally got behind her when she was off balance.

"Whoops," he mocked, and swung. Her head rolled hit the ground just before her body did.

A gunshot caught his attention and he whirled around to see Sam drop to the ground. Luthor was still standing, but not moving, and Dad was still holding the Colt, aiming at the vampire.

Luthor's body jerked twice, as if he were being shocked, and he dropped, _dead_, to the dirt.

Within a second, Dean was crouching beside Sam's prone form. "Sam!" he said frantically, turning his brother onto his back and hauling him up to a sitting position, grimacing at the sound of his rattling breaths. "Sammy, you with me?"

Sam groaned weakly, squeezing his eyes shut and bringing one hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose.

Dean stopped breathing himself, recognizing the pose. He turned to stare at the Colt, which had been pressed against his back, now in his dad's hands. And now Sam, moaning through his wheezes and holding his head like it hurt more than the bruises around his neck. "Headache?" he asked quietly. Sam peeled his eyes open, coughing lightly. His pupils were still more dilated than the darkness of nighttime could account for and he didn't answer, but the look in his eyes was enough.

John was staring at Sam, flicking brief glances at the gun he held in his hand. "Boys?" he asked, his voice uncharacteristically hesitant.

Dean pulled Sam closer as he coughed again. "You got a thing for flying guns, little brother?" he asked evenly.

"Got a thing for keeping you from getting shot," Sam rasped.

Coherent, then. But...Christ. So it _was_...

"Come on, get up," he answered, standing and taking most of Sam's weight as his brother pushed himself up shakily with a wince. "Dad," he said, "the rest of the nest is still out there."

With a start, John shook his head firmly. "They won't come after us, not with their leader and his mate both dead. They'll run and try to regroup." He studied the two of them. "Get your brother into the truck, Dean. We've got a lot to talk about."

XXXXXXXXXX

The ride back was strained and silent. Dean took occasional glances back at Sam, lying curled in the backseat. His brother looked back, and eventually sat up himself.

An accident. Like that one time, after the Miller kid killed himself. A freak adrenaline thing.

Except...

_("Got a thing for keeping you from getting shot.")_

That didn't sound particularly accidental.

The truck rumbled to a stop in front of the motel. John pulled the keys from the ignition and headed for the trunk to gather their belongings.Dean made for Sam's side to support him, but Sam batted his hand away. "I can walk," he insisted, proving it by stepping out on his own, most of the lingering shakiness gone.

They puttered around for the first few minutes, as if preparing to debrief after winding down from a normal hunt. But their movements were jerkier than usual, their steps more abrupt, their silence thicker and more suffocating. This wasn't a normal hunt in any way, from the Colt placed carefully on the desk to Sam's little stunt.

Eventually, when their dad was leaning against the desk and Dean and Sam each perched on the edge of one bed, John said, "Which one of you wants to explain what happened out there?"

Their dad knew about the psychics; he must have, even before they'd found out, or he wouldn't have sent them to Caleb. But, like Dean, John had never been comfortable with using anything less tangible than rock salt and cat's eye shells. Even if he knew all the incantations, he'd been quick to correct his young sons when they thought it was like magic or witchcraft. A little supernatural, yes, but those were just established rituals; it wasn't like he himself—or his sons—were supernatural.

Dean started, "You know Sammy's got these, uh...psychic abilities..."

"Visions," John said."I thought he got visions. That, tonight...that was..."

"Telekinesis," Sam put in."Or that's what we've been calling it."

John waited.

"We met another kid—his mom died the same way as...as Mom," Sam continued. "He was primarily telekinetic. And I found out afterward that I could..." He made a vague, waving motion.

"Bend spoons," Dean suggested. "Although I've never gotten him to actually bend a—"

"You think this is funny?" John snapped at him, making Dean shut up, a little surprised.

"No, sir, not--"

"When were you going to tell me about this?"

"Dad," Sam said, "it never really came up—"

John wasn't paying attention to Sam, his glare still fixed on Dean. "Something like this happens to your brother, you get on the phone and you—" He cut himself off, looking away for an instant. "You should have told me earlier," he said instead, his voice stern.

"Dad, we thought you _knew_," Sam said. "Dad!" He waited until John's gaze had swung to him before saying, "You sent us to Joshua when I was in the hospital; you had to have known I was psychic." He grimaced himself—neither of them had quite gotten used to saying it aloud.

John looked between the two of them before sighing. "I thought it was just visions," he said.

"It's never happened before tonight," Dean offered. "Besides when we first found out." And maybe once at Stanford. "He can't stop the visions, but the telekinesis was like a one-off thing."

But suddenly his mind was flipping through the last few months, wondering. Had Sam known beforehand, that time he'd ducked a knife just in time without looking, or spun away just before a door splintered beside him? Those times one of their weapons had gone skittering and he'd looked over to see it in Sam's hand?

Stupid, he berated himself.That's instinct. Reflexes. Training.Both of them had done the same dozens of times. That's nothing. Probably.

Hell, he didn't know anymore.

John was wearing an odd expression, but not angry anymore—considering. Thinking.

"Can you control it?" he asked.

"It just happens," Dean repeated.

"I was talking to your brother."

There was silence for a while—long enough for Dean to turn to his brother with an incredulous look."Sam?"

Sam looked determinedly at John, not meeting Dean's stare. "Not completely," he said.

Which, to Dean, meant, _Yes—not perfectly, but yes._

"I've been...practicing."

"Sam!" Dean said angrily, coming to his feet. "What—when?"

"When you...uh, after you fall asleep at night, mostly."

Which meant the little shit was sleeping even less than he'd thought.

"What the hell happened to not trying this unless _I'm watching_?"

That wasn't actually what he'd meant to say—he'd wanted to tell Sam to stop it and never try it again and why the hell had he started again in the first place after—

"Good," John said calmly with a gleam in his eyes. Dean gaped.

"Wha...Dad!"

"If this is part of your brother now, he needs to learn to use it."

Irritation rising again—at his father, this time—he said, "You can't be serious."

"Watch your tongue," John warned.

"I'm not going to let you turn Sam into your weapon," Dean burst out, "like you did—" He stopped, then tried again, "You don't understand.You weren't there when Sam was _delirious_ with pain from his fucking visions. Did you see what it did to him out there tonight?"

"Dean," Sam placated, "It's gotten better; the headaches aren't as bad anymore."

Stabbing a finger toward his brother, he challenged, "You wanna tell me your head isn't still hurting now?"

"Yes!"

"Okay. Now try it without lying through your ass."

Sam looked away. "It's not that bad, Dean; we've both coped with a lot worse."

"Fuck, Sam!"

John interrupted with, "Okay, that's enough. He saved your life tonight, Dean. All of our lives."

"I have to, Dean," Sam said, almost pleading now. "You have to understand...I can't keep watching people die and keep getting there too late to do anything. And...maybe it really is a gift, Dean. I can save people with this—the visions, and whatever else. Dean...Please."

Feeling trapped, he paced a few steps, then sat back down.

_'There was just a lot of fire, and you—and Jess—were going to die_,_'_ Sam had told him. _'...He was about to put a bullet in your head...I just wanted to get the gun away from him.'_

Because that was what it meant to Sam. It wasn't a psychic thing that may or may not have to do with the demon they were hunting and may or may not drive him insane, like the other kids visited by the demon. It was about saving people.

_That's _my_ job, Sammy. _I'm_ supposed to protect you._ When had that gotten screwed up?

"Anything else I don't know about?" John demanded.

"Uh...I get...weird vibes sometimes."

"Weird...vibes," John repeated slowly.

Sam shook his head. "I don't know. I can tell sometimes if there's a spirit or a demon nearby. Sometimes there are these impressions...I think they're from...uh...other people, or spirits sometimes, if their emotions are really strong. Not quite thoughts, but...feelings. Images. You know." Which, of course, they didn't really know at all. "And Dean, I haven't been...I've never been able to get anything from you. I swear, I wouldn't pry...I wouldn't do that to you. That's the one thing I haven't really practiced at all."

Sam winced—not in pain this time, but in guilt—as Dean looked at him, not bothering to hide the hurt in his eyes. Sam had been lying to him—not with direct words, maybe, but full-on lying just the same. He wanted to throw back _'Why should I believe you?'_ But he did believe it. The expression Sam wore was honest, practically begging--even before, when he hadn't known what his brother was hiding, he'd known there was something wrong. He'd just screwed up on _what_.

And Joshua had said something similar--that his thoughts were blocked off. It was reassuring to know it was the same to Sam. Dean tightened his jaw, taking a deep breath.

"What if it happens in the middle of a fight again, huh?" he asked gruffly. "You pull a gun away from someone and wind up lying on the ground. I don't care if it only takes ten goddamn seconds for you to recover—that's ten seconds too long to be incapacitated."

Sam hesitated, looking worried about Dean's reaction. "I've...gotten good enough at it to choose when I'm using it. It doesn't come unexpectedly anymore." As if to prove it, Sam turned to their father's journal on the desk, and twitched slightly as it slid a few inches to the side. He drew in a sudden, deep breath and his pupils dilated slightly, reminding Dean bizarrely of someone on some freaky kind of high.

"Jesus." Somehow, the control Sam had scared Dean even more. "That doesn't answer the question."

"Tonight, I knew Dad would be ready, and you could take care of Kate—"

"Kate?"

"The female vampire," Sam clarified, because of course he'd remember the name of the vampires trying to fucking kill them. "Dean, I wouldn't do it if it put me in danger."

Dean studied him. "Really."

"Yes," Sam lied.

Dean said nothing, knowing he wouldn't get anything more than that.

"Sam," John said, "it's been taking you less time to recover the more you practice, you said."

"Yessir," Sam said.

John looked at Dean, who sighed in frustration and looked away. He couldn't agree to this, but he wouldn't argue, either. "You'll practice," John told Sam. "With us watching."

"Yessir."

"What about the demon?" Dean said. "What if this is all a part of its plans?"

"We won't let the demon use your brother," John said. "Learning to use his abilities could come in handy, Dean, you know that. Did you hear the vampires out there? Something wants that gun, and it's more powerful than they are.We need every advantage we can get."

_The demon won't be using him_, Dean thought, really and truly bitter at his father in a way he'd never been before, _but you will_. Sam was still beseeching him with those goddamn fucking eyes of his, though, so he didn't stay it aloud.

"How do you usually do this?" John asked.

Dean stopped Sam's answer with, "We can wait until tomorrow." Enough was enough.

"Dean—"

"It can wait one fucking night until we've all gotten some sleep!" he growled.

John was watching him curiously. He glanced at Sam. "All right. You're right."

Not sure he'd heard right, Dean asked, "I am?"

John inclined his head."Get some rest, boys. We'll go on tomorrow."

XXXXXXXXXX

Four days later, Dean was sitting cross-legged on their bed, checking the state of their guns. Sam was sitting on Dad's, doing...Jesus, he always looked like he was _meditating_ when he did this. Dean had resisted the urge to tease him about it at first, but seriously, he could only hold out for so long. Sam had started throwing him dirty looks whenever he opened his mouth, and, come on, he wasn't _that_ bad.

Their dad was out, looking up hunts or researching of whatever. Apparently, "you'll practice with us watching" actually meant "Dean will be locked up and bored out his mind while Sam tosses shit around the room."

He fingered a shell packed with buckshot, rolling it in his fingers. The shotgun was a good tool to carry around, but considering how much of what they hunted was spirits, it was useless more often than not. Not much kept spirits away but rock salt.

Wait...

A can of salt sat in the bag next to him, and he looked from it to the shell in his hand. Huh. What if...

He rummaged through the bag for a handful of unused shells, then carefully opened one and poured out the lead. He took another glance at Sam before reaching for the salt and a makeshift press. The salt was too light to do lethal damage to anything corporeal, but it would sure as hell work on a spirit. He readjusted his seat on the bed as he packed a plug of crystals into the shell. Sam would be pissed about sleeping in spilled salt, but oh well—as long as Sam didn't try to retaliate somehow, anyway. Dean had gotten a piece of silverware in the head just that morning and had to laugh at the way the spoon was not only bent but twisted in a knot.

As much as he hated to admit it, Sam _was_ getting better at the telekinesis thing, and showing no signs of losing his marbles (well, no more than he'd already lost before, anyway, he assured Sam). When he was focused, he was getting pretty good at making things come toward him or pushing them away, although he'd almost knocked himself out a couple of times before Dean suggested that he try something lighter than a goddamn chair. Maybe they were right—this psychic thing could be a real advantage. It was just so far off _normal_ for them, and so unpredictable...

Not that Dean was a control freak, because that was Sam, and Dad. But when it came to Sam, and family, being out of control wasn't an option.

In any case, Sam had been accessing occasional visions, but they were odd, jumbled, which, oddly, seemed to surprise Sam. "They've been getting clearer," he'd insisted, frowning, reminding Dean with a pang of hurt and guilt that he'd been practicing this on his own, probably for months now."It's like there's something getting them mixed up, now. Something big happening, throwing a spanner in the works."

Which was not exactly comforting.

He was working on the visions, now, and Dean was listening to his steady breathing, which was why he noticed something was wrong.

Sam's eyes were open and glazed, and they fixed on some point in front of himself. "Sam?" Dean asked tentatively.

His brother continued to stare and began to move his eyes around the room, as if watching something play out. This was normal, too _(hah—'normal')_, so Dean put down the shell he was experimenting with and slowly came to his feet, making no move to interrupt. He did edge suspiciously closer, however, when Sam gasped and clenched his fists in the covers on the bed, sitting straighter and pulling himself forward so he was kneeling.

So Dean was ready when Sam yelled, "No!" and _launched_ himself off the bed.

Dean caught him in the chest and they went down hard together in a tangle of bodies and wildly swinging limbs just as the door opened and their father walked in the door, a bag over his shoulder.

"What—"

"Sammy, calm down," Dean ordered, knowing his brother could pull out of the visions quickly now, and that the flailing panic (_ow, _goddamnit) was probably mostly from coming to his senses on the floor, partially restrained. "Sam, it's me, fucking hell..."

When Sam stopped struggling, the two of them collapsed and lay where they were, breathing hard, Sam clutching at Dean's shirt.

"Get off me, you girl," Dean finally grumbled, pushing him off and then hauling him up. "What was that all about?"

Sam leaned against the food of the bed, still panting though his face was pale. "Sorry. Forgot it wasn't real," he said sheepishly. More serious, he said, "It's going after another family."

"Another family?" John broke in, closing the door and coming in closer. "The demon?"

Sam nodded, grimacing slightly. "Yeah.There was a baby, and then a woman came in and..." His eyes flicked up to the ceiling, and neither of them had to ask what the rest was.

"When?"

He shook his head helplessly. "I don't know, there's no way for me to tell—"

"What else do you remember?"

"Uh..." Sam rubbed at his forehead, then said, "Train. There was a train passing. There must be railroad tracks nearby."

"And?"

Sam drew in a slow breath."I...I'd recognize the house, or the woman, if I saw them again, but..." he shook his head. "She had dark hair?"

John dropped his bag and pulled out several folders. "I've picked up some signs," he told them. "Ones that always crop up before the demon strikes."

"Signs?"

"Cattle mutilations, temperature fluctuations, electrical storms, things like that."

Dean cocked his head, thinking. "These things happened in Lawrence," he remembered, half-asking whether his memory was correct.

"The week before your mother died," John confirmed. "And in Palo Alto," he told Sam, "before you left. And they're starting again."

Sam's eyes darkened."Where?"

"Salvation, Iowa." He tucked the Colt into his waistband, saying, "Let's go, boys. No family is going through the same hell we went through. Ever again."

"Dad, there could be dozens of kids—"

"We'll search the records in the hospitals and health center. It always happens on the baby's six-month birthday—"

"Six months old?" Sam interrupted.

"On the day," John repeated."We'll look for kids who match, find which ones live near train tracks and see if Sam recognizes any of the mothers.And then..." He patted the Colt.

Piece of cake.

As they quickly packed their belongings and headed for the door, John stopped them again. "Boys...keep your heads down as much as you can."

Dean quirked his brow."That's how we always do this job, Dad," but John was shaking his head.

"This is different. This demon...I still don't know who it is, but it's a bad sonuvabitch. It knows I'm closing in on it. And it knows you two. It won't stop at anything to sniff us out. Understood?"When they nodded, he turned and strode first out the door. "Then let's move."

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_"It's trying to get in," Jess said, crying now."Sam, it's a demon and it's trying to get in..."_


	17. Chapter 17

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: A few revelations, friends. Hope you enjoy!

XXXXXXXXXX

_"Now we act like every second counts."_

_("Salvation")_

XXXXXXXXXX

The drive to Iowa wasn't unusually long, considering the lifestyle they led, but it seemed like forever to Sam. It wasn't the same way he'd used to hate the long drives that were the mindless hours when he couldn't pretend he was just like the other kids. Now, knowing what awaited them in Salvation, the hours were more than just mindless; they were unbearable. Flashes of the young mother appeared at intervals before his eyes—he wasn't sure if they were premonitions or just a subconscious urge to _hurry, hurry, hurry_. Dean was restless, too, he could tell. He'd pulled out the collection of mullet rock cassette tapes ("Really, dude?" Sam had asked. "Cassette tapes?") from Dad's truck and was pushing them into the tape deck, only to eject and replace them half a song later. He stopped when he caught Sam watching him but continued to fidget.

This could be it. Armed with the Colt, foresight, and the pooled strengths that each of the three Winchesters brought to the hunt...it could all be over in a few days.

And when it was over... 

What then? Back to college? Back to hunting?

His musing was cut off by a ringing phone. He jumped, then scrambled to pull his cell from his pocket. He stared for a moment, until Dean started to shoot him curious looks, then flipped it open.

"Jessica, hi," he said. "It's been a while—"

_"Sam! Oh God, Sam..."_ Her voice was shaking, panicked, and he sat up straighter, heart thumping.

"Jess, what is it? What's wrong? Where are you?" Dean turned his head sharply.

_"It's trying to get in,"_ she said, crying now. _"It's Becky...she's possessed..."_

"Possessed? A demon?" he repeated. "She...are you sure?"

_"I saw her through the window, and her _eyes_...they were completely black, Sam, it's a demon and it's trying to get in..."_

"Jessica, where are you?" he asked, fingers tightening around the phone. "Are all your entrances sealed?"

_"I...I'm staying with Becky in this house her parents own in St. Louis,"_ she sobbed. _"And I put salt everywhere as soon as we got here, so it hasn't been able to get in yet, but it's not going away, what do I—"_ A thumping sound came through the phone, followed by her scream.

"Jess? Jessica! Are you okay? God--Jess, answer me!"

A few moments later, her voice came through again. _"It's trying to break down the door," _she said, her voice shaking. Sam had to lean forward with a hand on the dash to draw a breath. _"She's saying something, but I can't hear through the door..." _A rattling sound and another gasp. _"Oh god...I'm scared, Sam.._."

"Don't panic—the salt will make it harder for her to break anything that crosses the threshold, and even if she does she can't get past the line and into the house..."

_"But she's not going away!"_

He swallowed. "She has to be exorcised..."

If Jess tried an exorcism now, it would just run away and come back again. She'd have to trap it somehow, without putting herself in danger...

God, think think think think think _think think_...

Dean's voice interrupted them, saying sharply, "Does she know about Devil's Traps?" Sam looked up then and realized they'd stopped and were on the shoulder of the road.

"Devil's Tr..." His eyes widened. "Jessica, did you read the books I sent you? The one on Devil's Traps?"

_"Um...yes. Yes, I did."_ A muffled whimper and another crashing sound.

"Go get the book and find a picture of the Trap. Grab something you can use to draw on the floor—charcoal, paint, marker, anything."

_"Okay. Okay."_

For a few minutes, Sam heard only fast breathing and the sounds of Jessica shuffling through something.

A tapping noise made him raise his head to see his father standing at the window, looking annoyed. Not prepared to deal with him now, he turned away. The tapping became a sharp knock, until Dean cursed and stepped out, moving to pull John away and explain._ Jesus. Thank you, Dean_.

_"I've got the book and a Sharpie,"_ Jessica said finally into the phone.

"Will it write on the floor?" Sam asked. "Without rubbing off?"

A soft squeaking sound, then, _"Yeah."_

"Okay, Jessica, this is very important. I need you to draw the Trap on the floor, just inside the door, and it has to be exactly the way it looks in the book. Can you do that?"

_"On the fl...you want me to let it in?"_ her voice was rising in terror.

"Jess, listen to me! You have to exorcise the demon or it'll just keep coming back, and you can't finish an exorcism without pinning it down. And," he said, hoping it would help convince her, "that's Becky's body it's in. You'll be saving her, too."

He heard two hitching breaths through the phone, and then she said, _"All right. Okay. Right inside the door?"_

"Yes. You have to draw it, then break the salt line, so it steps into the Trap when it comes in. Hurry, Jess, but try to make it big and right up against the edge of the salt border so it'll be harder to miss stepping in it."

Over the next few minutes, he listened as Jessica moved around, drawing, broken by an occasional sound that reminded him of Dean kicking down a door. He flinched each time, wondering whether the door still held, if it had broken and a piece of debris had disturbed the salt, if, if, _if_. Once, he heard a clatter and a distant _"Shit"_ and he told her, "Jess, you can put the phone down until you're done; it'll be easier to draw—"

_"N-no, I don't want...Sam..."_

"Okay, okay. Fine. You're fine. You're doing fine, Jess. Keep—keep going."

From the driver's side, Dean appeared, their father behind him. "Dean told me," John said tersely. "You sure this works?"

Sam wanted to scream at him to shut up because his girlfriend—his _friend_ was being attacked by a demon, but Dean said quietly, "Me and Sam have done it before. It'll work, I'm sure of it." Sam looked at him, grateful on more levels than he could comprehend at the moment and trying not to remember that he'd been knocked out that one time they'd tried it. But this time would be different; they hadn't been ready then, and they'd rushed and made mistakes...this time would be different. It had to be.

_"I think that's it,"_ Jessica said over the phone. _"Sam, is that it? There's a scorpion thing in the middle, and I don't know if..."_

"I can't see it," he reminded her, wishing he could be there with her. "Compare it with the book—it doesn't have to be pretty, just all the elements have to be the same. Make absolutely _sure_."

Ten seconds of scuffling noises, then eleven, twelve, thirteen, fourteen...

_"I think it's done."_

He took a deep breath, picturing the book in his mind from the times he'd pored over a copy of it at Bobby's house. "Okay, now turn the page. Is there an exorcism written out there? Look for the words '_Exorcizo te_'."

_"Uh...I don't...I don't see it..."_

Pushing down panic, he said, "Try the next page."

_"...No, it's...Wait, here's...but it says 'exorcizamus...'."_

Berating himself for forgetting, he told her, "That's it, that's the one. It's just the verb conjugation; you need to make it singular because it's just you." He'd never minded before how specific rituals were, but he'd be cursing it now if he didn't have to stay calm enough to think._ It's just you, Jess. I should be there with you. I'm so sorry._

_"Is that the only time I have to change it?"_

Racking his brains, he closed his eyes, calling up the exorcism in his mind's eye, and said, "No, you should write this in—ready? The first word—"

_"Got that one."_

"Good girl. Go down to the next block, where it says 'adjuramus' and change it to 'adjuro.' Got it? Now down again—make 'nobis' 'me.'" He twitched as a muffled crashing sound came again and forced himself to concentrate on the ritual. "Uh...next section has a few. 'Libera nos' to 'libera me,' and 'rogamus' to—"

_"To 'rogo,'"_ she said. _"I remember."_

He wanted absurdly to laugh, remembering their tutoring sessions, too. "I...that's good, Jess. There are a lot of 'nos' in that part, so make sure you get them all."

_"...Okay. Is that it?"_

He swallowed. "That's it. After you break the line there'll be nothing stopping her from breaking through the door. Get back, as far as you can, before she gets in. And then do the exorcism, don't stop, and don't listen to anything she says. Did you get all that?"

_"I don't know if I'm reading it right. That other book I read said that the pronunciations are all different."_

Sam wasn't sure if it mattered whether or not she used the ecclesiastical pronunciations, but he wasn't going to take the risk. "It's not all different, Jessica, just a few sounds." He thought for a frantic moment, then said, "I'll say it with you, all right? Read it out of the book, and I'll be here, saying it right along with you. If you mess up, don't panic; just stop and go back and do that part again. Can you do that?"

There was a long silence on the other end. A pounding on the door made her gasp, and she answered, _"Yeah, I can do that. I...God, I'm gonna let her...let it in."_

"Jess..."

_"No, I'm okay. It's okay. Here goes."_

"Wait!" he blurted, then stopped. "I just...Jess. Jessica. Be careful."

_"I know,"_ she said, in answer. _"And...me too, Sam."_

He heard her soft mantra of _oh god oh god oh god_ under her breath, and then silence. He squeezed his eyes shut and clenched his grip tightly on the car seat under him.

Sam jumped when he heard two more slamming sounds, and then a splintering crash.

"J...Jess?" he asked when he didn't hear anything. "You there?"

_"Yeah,"_ she said, trembling but her voice stronger. _"It worked, Sam, she's in the Trap."_

The furious shriek that came over the line was familiar, too—Rebecca Warren's voice.

"Are you ready?" he asked, preparing himself as if he were exorcising a demon himself.

_"Ready. 'Exorcizo te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas...__"_

Sam lost himself in the familiar rhythm of the exorcism, pacing himself to match her, stopping twice when she stumbled. The demon was howling something at Jessica while she read, but Sam couldn't tell what it was over the sound of their reading.

At last, together, they finished, "_Benedictus Deus. Gloria patri!_"

Jessica gasped and Sam held his breath and closed his eyes against the sound of little Becky's voice screaming. Finally, there was a soft _thump_, and Jessica said, _"Oh my god. That smoke...was that the demon?"_

He exhaled in relief. "Yeah. That was it. Is Becky...?"

_"She's moving. I don't think she's hurt,"_ Jess said, her voice steadier now, and Sam's chest ached with something like pride. _"Jesus. What do I tell her?"_

He hesitated. "Tell her the truth. She knows a little about...what my family does."

_"Sam, she was talking about—"_

"Don't let it get to you, Jess, whatever she said."

_"No, no, not like that. Sam, she was looking for you, specifically. And she said she wanted the other Winchesters, too."_

Sam's breath caught in his throat. "She said...?"

_"Becky's waking up; I have to get her taken care of. Sam, be careful, okay?"_

"I will," he said numbly. "You too. Call me when you know if everything's all right?"

_"Promise. Thank you...so much. I don't know what I would have done if..."_ She stopped, but he heard her still breathing over the line. Then, _"You're a good friend, Sam. You and your brother take care of yourselves. Stay in touch."_

The line went dead, and Sam slowly lowered it from his ear.

She was fine. She was fine. She was—

"Sam?"

He looked up to meet Dean's eyes...and the last ten minutes crashed over him. Dragging in a deep breath, he bent forward until his head was almost between his knees, the phone dropping from his numb fingers.

"Hey, hey." He heard footsteps, and then the passenger side door was opening and he could smell the leather of his brother's jacket. A hand found his back, gentle but guiding him downward to approximate shock position. "It's done, Sam. She's okay." Dean hesitated. "She...she's okay, right?"

The question registered, and he unfolded himself and forced himself to say, "Yeah. She...the exorcism worked. And Becky's fine too."

"Becky...?" Dean cut off the question and nodded, his face expressionless but his eyes clearly showing relief. "Glad to hear that," he said. "She's a strong girl."

Sam shifted subtly so that he was leaning, just slightly, against his brother's solid form. "Yeah," he whispered. "She's amazing."

John spoke up, then. "Sammy...I didn't realize you had a girlfriend."

Surprised and a little defensive, he looked up and found his father's expression hooded and unreadable. "I did," he answered, emphasizing the past tense, not wanting to discuss it. "She's fine," he repeated, for his own benefit as well as for his father's.

John nodded, something flickering in his eyes, then said, "If you're... We need to keep moving, boys."

Dean looked up abruptly, but Sam was nodding in agreement, a fresh surge of anger rising—a fresh need for revenge. "Yeah, we should. Wait, wait...there's something else. The demon—"

"The one that attacked your...your friend?"

"Yeah. Jess said it was looking for—" _me_—"us. Looking for the Winchesters."

Dean drew in a sharp breath. "Sonuvabitch," John spat. "It's going after people we know."

Sam thought back to his small circle of friends at Stanford, wondering if he'd hear about someone's mysterious death in a few days. Even if he could warn them without sounding insane, it was holiday season, and there was no way he'd be able to find everyone he knew. He'd have to hope they would be safe.

"Most people we know, they'll have protections up," Dean said. "This sounded like just a regular demon. Minor leagues. We can call to warn them—"

John cut him off. "No. We can't."

Sam gaped at him. "Dad!"

"If you call Bobby Singer, or Caleb Reeve, do you think they'll agree to sit at home and barricade themselves in behind Devil's Traps? The ones who might be a target can defend themselves against lower demons. They'd just be exposing themselves if they leave, which they _will _if we call them. There'll be no more blood spilt on account of this demon, you hear me? No, this is just a distraction for us."

Scrubbing a hand through his hair, Sam said, "Then we have to go, _now_. Get to the demon first."

John nodded grimly. "This ends now. I'm ending it. I don't care what it takes." He turned away and walked purposefully back to his truck. 

Sam turned to stare out the side window as the Impala pulled back into traffic, Dean more restless than ever and giving him nervous, searching glances when he thought Sam wasn't paying attention. They were ending it. It would all be over. 

He didn't know what would happen after. But he knew now that college, Stanford, Jessica and Steve and Mike and the Warrens...there was no going back to them. Not anymore.

All the visions about people he'd never met...why hadn't he seen this coming to Jess? To Becky? And who else had he missed—_would_ he miss?

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, knowing Dean would be wondering but not particularly caring. A few miles later, he felt a warm rush of excitement fill his stomach even as his head twinged in protest, and he took a deep breath, watching, listening. When he didn't think he could listen to a woman's tortured screams for her baby any longer, he turned and said, "Rosie. The baby's name is Rosie."

XXXXXXXXXX

Sam went looking for streets and houses near railroad tracks while Dean and John dug through birth records. By chance or—well, he wasn't going to speculate on what else it could be--he found a row of houses that looked similar to the one he'd seen in the vision. It wasn't good enough to pin down, though, since so many of the houses were of the same model.

He made it back to the motel room shortly before the older two men, both of whom were carrying sheets covered with names and patient information. John hadn't wanted to take any chances, and they'd written down the names of every infant close to six months, named Rosie or not.

"I think I know which street," Sam announced. "It's close to the hospital Dean went to," he added, and Dean shoved his sheets toward him.

"I can't understand how you could have wanted to subject yourself to four years of libraries and research," Dean muttered. The topic was still a little raw—had never really gotten less so even after a year on the road—but he smiled nonetheless at the familiar griping.

"Here," he said, grabbing a pen and circling the name he was looking for. "Rose Holt," he read. "The address fits."

"Mother?" John asked, and Sam dragged his finger across the page, following Dean's writing. "Monica Harrison Holt."

"Look her up," John told him. "See if you can dig up pictures."

He booted up the laptop, prepared to try to hack into medical or police records, but that proved unnecessary. A simple internet search yielded an article about some local event, with several people in the neighborhood captured in photos. From one, Monica Holt's face smiled back at him. "That's her," he said.

Dean and John crowded behind him for a look. "You're certain?"

"Yes," he said without a doubt. "That's the woman I saw."

Dean reached back for the sheet of records. "The baby will be six months tomorrow," he said. "Dad, is it the night before or after the birthday?"

"Not tonight," John said. "It'll strike tomorrow night." He stepped back. "We've got a little time yet. Sam, go to their house and try to confirm everything matches your vision. We can't afford to make any mistakes this time. It knows we're close, and we might not get another chance."

"Yes, sir," Sam said, and Dean asked, "How do we get them out of there?"

"We don't," John told them, making both brothers stop in surprise, but Dean was already nodding.

"They'd never believe us."

"And we can pin the demon down now; we know where it's going to be."

Sam stared. "We're using them as bait? Monica's going to die—we should at least get the parents out of there—"

"What parents do you think would leave their baby alone on the word of three men they don't know?" John asked rhetorically. "We have no choice."

"We'll be watching," Dean added. "We can be in there as soon as we see a sign of the demon."

Sam was still uncomfortable at the idea of the dark-haired woman—_Monica_—at risk. And the baby—what hell would she go through if they failed?

They wouldn't fail. Not this time. And if this was their chance to kill the demon...they had to take it.

"Okay," he agreed. "I'll go check out the house."

He was partially out the door when John called, "Dean, where're you going?"

Dean sounded surprised when he answered, "To...check out the house?"

John opened his mouth as if to call him back, but then, with an odd expression, closed it again. "All right. You two go, then. Be back before nightfall so we can go over our plans."

XXXXXXXXXX

The returned to find their father pacing the floor. "It's definitely her," Sam said cautiously, not knowing what his father was thinking.

John stopped to face them and said, "Joshua called."

Fear spiked as Sam asked, "Is he all right?" Then again, he'd been the one to call, so... "Is someone else...?"

"No," John said, "He's okay, but a demon got into his place earlier, possessing a customer. Looking for the Winchesters." He breathed out hard through his nose. "He only noticed because he tried to read its mind and saw a demon there. He exorcised it, but..."

Sam exchanged a glance with Dean, who said, "We'll get it, Dad. Tomorrow night. We'll finish it."

John nodded. "Damn right we will."

XXXXXXXXXX

_"You've been practicing, Sammy," the yellow-eyed man said that night. "It feels good, doesn't it, to feel that power filling you?"_

_"Yes," Sam said simply. _

_He'd found over the past months that he could hold himself back from speaking in these odd vision-like dreams, but he'd seldom found a need to. The man rarely asked anything he didn't want to answer. Thoughts were fuzzier here, but it was okay—everything was simpler, and there was less to think about._

_"You were still weak the first time I saw you. But you've gotten strong. I knew you would. You were always my favorite."_

_He wrinkled his forehead. "Favorite?"_

_The man smiled paternally at him. "You and one other—that one's strong, too, and smart. Resourceful. But not like you. You, Sammy, are my favorite out of all my children."_

_"Your children? But I'm not your son."_

_The man only smiled at him._

_"...Am I?"_

_"It's not always that simple, Sammy." Sam frowned, trying to figure out what that meant, but the man admonished, "Don't think. Feel. You're getting stronger, kid. You know there are parts of your mind deeper than anything most people could ever dream of accessing. Feel. You know me, don't you?"_

_Again, that odd, inexplicable familiarity washed over him, and he found himself nodding. "I do. Why don't I ever remember you when I wake up?"_

_The man spread his arms. "Here—with me—in the deepest, most powerful corner of your mind...in a way, you're more awake than you've ever been. You really don't remember me at all?"_

_When he considered, Sam admitted, "Not you. But what you say...I remember that. Not the words, exactly, but I remember what you tell me."_

_"So you should; it's important, what you learn in here. And when you see me, you'll know who I am."_

_"But when?"_

_The man smiled regretfully. "There's something I have to do first. But soon. Your time will come soon. You're almost ready now. I'm so proud of you."_

_"There's something I have to do, too," Sam confided trustfully. "Something I've been waiting my whole life to do."_

_"You're going after the demon," he said. "I know."_

_"You know about the demon?"_

_"Of course." The man studied him intently. "What would you be willing to do to destroy it?"_

_"Anything," Sam answered without hesitation. "I'd do anything."_

_"What would make you change your mind?"_

_Caught by the unexpected question, he shook his head. "Nothing. We've waited too long for this."_

_"You hate the demon. You want it to hurt."_

_"Yes. More than anything." A distant part of him protested feebly against the hot waves of rising rage, but it was washed away quickly. "It hurt us first."_

_"You and your brother and your dad?"_

_"Yes."_

_"What if something wanted to hurt them again?"_

_"I...what?"_

_"Your brother loves you. Your dad...well. Maybe your dad, too, but it doesn't matter if he does or not, because _you_ love _them_, don't you?"_

_"Yes...I mean, of course my dad...I would do anything for them..."_

_"So tell me again: is there really nothing you want more than killing the demon?"_

_He stared, not knowing how to answer. There was something wrong with this, but his mind was too muddled to realize what it was._

_"Think hard about it, Sammy. I'll be watching over you."_

_"Why me? Why do you care about me so much?"_

_The yellow-eyed man smiled. "There's a war coming. I need you prepared. You're one of mine," he repeated. "And I'll show you why." He snapped his fingers.  
_

_The dream dissolved. Sam looked around in confusion for the yellow-eyed man. "Where are you? Where am I?" he asked, but there was no answer.  
_

_And then all thought of the man fled his mind as he realized where he was: child's nursery. A shadowed figure stood over the crib, and he crept closer, trying to see... _

_He stumbled back in horror as blood dripped into the crib, onto the baby...No, no, no...  
_

_He awoke as a voice screamed, "Rosie!"_

xxxxx

Dean woke as soon as Sam bolted upright from the vision, but he was too busy trying to untangle himself from the bedsheet to care. He couldn't even tell this time whether his hands were shaking from the usual adrenaline rush of visions or from revulsion.

"Sam...?"

He dimly registered his father waking as well in the other bed as he finally freed himself and staggered into the bathroom, kicking at the door but not bothering with it when it stopped partially open.

_...blood dripping into..._

He crashed to his knees before the toilet and began retching.

When he was finished and sank back, trembling and gasping, a familiar hand tentatively found his back. He leaned into the comfort for a second...and then he pulled away sharply with a cry, almost crawling away until he was backed into the corner.

"Sam," Dean was saying, his hair mussed and eyes wide, hands held out calmingly. "Sam, it's just me. Just me. Did you have a vision?" John stood in the dark behind, looking disturbed. Sam stared at them for a second and his stomach roiled as he thought back on the image of baby Rosie, crying, licking away the blood on her lip...

"Don't touch me," he managed, starting to feel light-headed. "Don't!"

"I'm just hitting the flush, Sam. See?" Sam's eyes darted toward the sound of the flushing toilet. "Sam. You're hyperventilating. Slow down, man. What happened, Sam?"

He was pretty sure Dean didn't usually say his name every other sentence, and he recognized it as a calming tactic they used on people on the verge of a panic attack. He drew in a deep, ragged breath and closed his eyes, hearing Dean's uncharacteristically gentle, "That's it, Sammy. Breathe." When his head had cleared, he looked back into Dean's face, the expression soothing but the eyes unable to hide their alarm. "You okay there?" he asked, his voice gruffer but still bordering on uncertainty.

Sam nodded. "I...uh, had a vision." Dean's head turned to exchanged a look with their father. Dean had always shared a secret language of looks and gestures with the man, just like he did with Sam—just as Sam never had with their dad. He shook his head, wondering why he was doubting his father again, now of all times. _Focus, dammit._ "Not about something new. About the same woman—Monica and her baby."

"So...what was different this time? You saw more?"

"I saw the demon standing over the crib..."

"You saw it? The person it was possessing, you mean? You know who it'll be?"

Frowning, he shook his head. "No, not like that. Only its outline, in the shadows, from the back. And then it...it slit its wrist..." Sam lifted his own, as if to demonstrate, feeling disconnected from his own body. "I think...I think it was feeding her its _blood_." He looked up apprehensively. "Does that mean...it did the same thing to me?"

In a way, he should have known it his whole life, or something like it—the way holy water affected him, almost burning but not quite. He just hadn't realized it before because oh _God_ it would have meant he was part demon and _holy shit this wasn't happening..._

Nausea rose again at the thought, and he scrambled miserably to the porcelain bowl just in time.

_God, their faces. They'll never look at me again._

_Or maybe they will. They've got the Colt now. _

But then Dean's hand was on his back again, and another arm came around his shoulders to support him as the heaves shook him.

When he finished, there was no way he could move to escape his brother's touch, so, after a brief hesitation, he leaned fully against the strong body. "I have demon blood in me," he whispered, feeling heat behind his eyes but almost sleepy in his brother's arms.

"You don't know that, Sammy."

"Why else would he go to the all the children? Everything's done the same way each time. The kids' age, the fire, everything... It's not an attack, Dean. It's a ritual. A _blood_ ritual. You can't tell me it doesn't make sense."

There was a long silence. "Maybe. It doesn't matter."

Sam wanted to laugh. He should be arguing. Of _course_ it mattered—how could it not?

Instead, he slumped further against Dean's form and nodded.

He didn't look at Dean as he was helped to his feet and led back to bed. He felt the bed dip as Dean sat on the edge but didn't look around, not wanting his brother to see his face just then.

Sam met his father's eyes, though, as the other man left his place by the bathroom door and crossed to his bed. It was only for a second, and then John looked away. Sam's eyes burned, and he shut them, letting the warmth slip between the closed lids.

A hand smoothed his hair away from his face, and he fell into a fitful sleep with his brother's warm hand resting on his shoulder, sinking into bloodstained dreams.

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_"Get the hell up to the nursery," John said. "And you shoot to kill, son."_


	18. Chapter 18

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: And here's where I introduce my version of the mythology behind YED and all of that--hope it seems okay. 

XXXXXXXXXX

_"Nobody's dying tonight...except that demon. That evil son of a bitch isn't getting any older than tonight, you understand me?"_

_("Salvation")_

XXXXXXXXXX

Both John and Dean were up when Sam opened his eyes the next morning. For a moment, he didn't move, watching Dean sip at a cup of coffee, nodding at something John was indicating in the journal. He'd seen this so many times: his brother and father in a huddle over some book or map or manuscript. But it was different, now. Dean had been twenty-three when Sam had left for college, but it was only now that he seemed to be truly an adult next to their father.

Sam didn't think he'd made any noise, but before long, Dean stiffened and turned around to see him staring. An expression flitted across his face but was replaced with a grin too fast for Sam to catch it. "Sleeping Beauty awakens," he teased. "And I didn't even have to give you a kiss."

Sam stared at him a moment too long but recovered his wits quickly enough to give an expected response. "Thank god for that, assbreath."

He waited for one of the other men to say something, not knowing where everything stood concerning his freak-out last night. Finally, Dean asked, "You gonna lie around all day? We've been waiting for you to get up so we can go get some breakfast."

Avoidance was good. He could work with that.

Some part of his mind thought he was forgetting something, from his dream or vision, maybe, but after sifting through all the memories of last night that he could remember, he dismissed it as nervous paranoia. Sam pulled on a clean set of clothes—laundry trips had become much more regular under their father's disapproving eye—and took his seat in the Impala, waiting for Dean to come and take the wheel. "Where're we going?"

"Diner a few blocks over," Dean answered.

"That far, huh," he deadpanned. "We're driving?"

Dean rolled his eyes. _"And _Dad wants to drive by the Holts' house later. Get an idea of what's what before we try to stake out the place."

They pulled into the diner. Sam didn't get out when Dean shut off the engine. "Dad won't look at me," he said quietly, staring hard at his hands.

Dean squinted out the windshield. "You're imagining it."

"No. I'm not."

Dean glanced at him this time, then sniffed, pulling the keys from the ignition. "He'll get over it."

Sam doubted this was something John Winchester, renowned hunter and demon-hater, would get over. Dean stepped out then, and Sam sighed and followed.

Breakfast was, surprisingly, less awkward than he'd anticipated. John didn't exactly avoid his gaze, but he looked away quickly every time their eyes met. Sam tried not to be affected—it wasn't his father's fault that his son had turned out to be...

What, exactly? What did it mean?

The three of them had perfected the art of looking casual, eating while speaking in hushed tones that carried no farther than their booth. After the last year, Sam couldn't quite get over the disorientation of eating in a diner without seeing Dean directly in front of him, but he welcomed his brother's presence at his side.

"All right," John said, swallowing a mouthful of coffee. "Here's what we'll do: I'll be outside in the truck, in front of the house. You two stay on foot and keep an eye on the back--let's cover as many angles as we can. Dean, keep your phone on and the line open with me, and stay in sight of your brother. Either of you sees any sign of the demon, you tell me and we go in, from the back and the front at once. You'll hear from me if I see it first. Try to get to the nursery without disturbing the parents. Sam, in your vision, who did you see in the house?"

The images were fresh in his mind and he didn't hesitate before replying, "Just the mom and daughter. There's a husband, too, but I didn't see where he was in the vision."

"His position's an unknown, then. If he shows, closest person to him holds him off and gets him out of the house. The others get the hell up to the nursery."

"Who'll have the Colt?" Dean asked.

John bared his teeth in something resembling a smile. "I will. If I'm tied up, I'll pass it off to you. And you shoot to kill, son."

"And get the mother and baby out of the house," Sam reminded him.

John scowled at his pancakes. "That too. The demon comes first. Or more will die, Sam."

_("The desire to preserve good isn't as strong as the desire to inflict pain on whatever hurt us to begin with...")_

Sam steeled himself and nodded, agreeing, "I know." The woman could die screaming in flames, but all Sam could think of was the demon. He almost wished they were exorcising the demon so that it would scream, too, as it burned in Hell.

XXXXXXXXXX

The night was dark, but from his spot, hidden from view by bushes, Sam could see the back door from which he would enter. Dean's crouching form was barely visible several meters away, covering the opposite corner of the house. Sam rolled a lock pick and torsion wrench in his fingers, knowing from the stance that Dean was holding his cell phone at his ear. Rosie's room was on the second floor, facing the front, where John sat in the truck. Hopefully, the demon's shadow would be clear enough for his father to see—otherwise, they'd have to rely on flickering lights.

God. This could be over tonight.

What was taking so long?

A light in the living room flickered. Sam rose halfway out of his crouch, seeing Dean's form do the same.

He began moving toward the house, wanting to be closer but unsure whether it was the demon or just...

In the distance the truck's door slam, and Sam was running even before he saw Dean start to move.

He made it to the door and was picking the lock when Dean got there, stuffing his phone away with one hand.

"Come on, come on, Sam..."

"That's not fucking helpful, Dean," he hissed back. He heard a final click and twisted the wrench. The doorknob turned and Dean immediately stepped through past him. As Sam came in behind him, they moved quickly toward the staircase.

He was partially up the stairs already when a feeling of urgency shuddered suddenly through him, and he turned, calling, "Dean!"

His brother whirled just in time to duck a baseball bat swinging toward his head. "Get out of my house!" the man yelled.

Dean dove toward the man just as John burst through the front door, Colt in his hands, and the husband turned away from Dean to met the new threat. Caught off guard, John barely managed to dodge and grab the bat in his hands, dropping his gun and sending it spinning across the floor. "Go!" he shouted.

Dean moved toward the Colt, but Sam was faster. Gritting his teeth, he reached out a hand and_ wrenched_. A jolt of pain spiked through his head, but it dissipated quickly in an ecstatic rush. Then he was wrapping his hand around the gun, Dean cursing as he changed directions and ran toward the staircase to catch up with Sam.

"Monica!" he heard from below. "Monica, get Ros—!" The cry was cut off by a grunt.

They reached the top of the stairs together just as Monica appeared in the hallway, saying, "Charlie, is everything—oh my God! Who are y... Rosie!"

"Dammit, Monica!" Dean yelled after her, both of them hurtling toward her. "We're trying to help you, you have to believe us!"

"Monica, don't go in the nursery!" Sam yelled just as they reached the doorway.

Monica was pressed against the wall, exactly as she had been in his vision, her wide-eyed stare terrified. Following her gaze, Sam saw the figure standing over Rosie's crib. The heavy smell of sulfur wafted toward him.

The demon held a wrist extended with a finger laid on top of it, as if about to slice through. It turned at the commotion and the yellow eyes widened at the sight of the gun in Sam's hands.

_Yellow eyes._

_The man with yellow eyes. _

_I've seen him before. I've dreamed..._

"It's you," Sam gasped. He dimly registered another set of footsteps approaching.

"Sam, goddamnit, shoot!" Dean screamed at him. Sam clenched his jaw and shook off the shock.

He raised the Colt and fired.

But instead of hitting, the bullet passed through the space as if nothing were there. Then the demon disappeared.

"No," his father's panting voice said from behind him. "Where the hell did it go!"

A thump sounded, and he saw Monica, released from the pressure holding her, drop to the floor. "My baby!" she gasped, trying to find her footing. "Rosie!"

_Demon's gone. Save the civilians._

"No, Monica," he said, moving to her side and picking her off the ground as she reached toward the crib.

"Dad, Sam, I got it!" Dean called, already scooping the baby from its crib. "Get her out of here!"

"Let's go!" Sam said, pushing Monica ahead of himself. "My brother's got Rosie...Dad! We have to get out of here!" Sudden heat at his back made him turn just in time to see the crib burst into flame. "Dad! Come on!"

Charlie Holt was standing on the front lawn when they ran out the front door, Dean leading the way with the baby and Monica just behind. "You stay away from my family!" He yelled.

He'd started to advance toward them when Monica screamed, "No, Charlie, wait! They saved us! They saved our baby."

Sam was ashamed at the strength of the bitterness he felt at that. The demon had escaped. Their dad was already at the truck, hands laid flat on the hood and head hanging. As he watched, John kicked the front tire viciously and opened the door, holding onto the frame as if for support.

"Thank you," Monica was telling Dean as she lifted Rosie from his arms.

Sam looked back at the house one more time, at the familiar sight of flames bursting through a window...

"Dean," he said, feeling dazed. "He's still in there." A shadow stood at the window. Yellow eyes gleamed wickedly from the darkness. "He's still..."

Words failed him and fury took their place. Gripping the Colt tighter in his hand, he turned and ran back toward the house.

"Sam, no!" A pair of arms wrapped around him.

"Dean, let me go! It's still in there!" He struggled, against Dean's grip, but his strength wasn't enough to overtake Dean this time.

"It's burning to the ground! It's no use!"

"It's taken too much from us already!"

Dean jerked him around, gripped his shirt, and yanked him closer. "And I'm not letting it take anyone else from me!"

Sam stared at his brother, then looked back once more to see the figure disappear in the flames. He stopped, making Dean stumble slightly against the sudden lack of resistance.

"Come on," Dean told him, and this time Sam heard the note of panic that he'd missed before in his own desperation. "Let's get out of here."

Monica's eyes followed them as they made for their dad's truck. John was waiting in the driver's seat, his expression stony. No one said a word as he and Dean took their seats. Finally, John slammed his hand on the rim of the steering wheel and choked out, "Goddammit." He turned the key in the ignition and they headed away from the burning house.

_Failed_, Sam thought. _Failed, failed, failed._

And then, _I saw the demon, and I knew him._

XXXXXXXXXX

They seemed to be keeping as far from each other as they could, John slumped in a chair, Dean perched lightly on one bed, and Sam in the far corner, leaning back against the walls. None seemed willing to meet the others' eyes and none wanted to be the first to break the silence.

Sam couldn't stop seeing the yellow-eyed gaze on him. Had he really dreamed of the man—_demon_—before? Was he just imagining it?

But he was remembering now. _'You know me, don't you,'_ the man had said. _'And when you see me, you'll know who I am...You're one of mine..."_

Finally, it was John who glared at the carpet and growled out, "It's not just a demon. It's one of the Grigori."

Sam froze in shock, then closed his eyes. _Grigori_. He'd thought they didn't exist.

Dean looked confused. "A what?"

"Grigori," Sam said dully. "The Watchers. Those who never sleep. Fallen angels, in Biblical mythology."

"But..." Dean had stood now. "Fallen _angels_? And, no...this bastard's been leaving sulfur everywhere. Only demons do that."

"I didn't know they were real," Sam murmured.

John finally lifted his head and sighed. "They're not. At least, not the way they're depicted in lore, exactly. They're demons, but powerful ones—practically demigods. No one knows for sure where they came from. They haven't been seen for centuries—possibly millennia—but this one..." He slammed a fist on the arm of the chair and went back to glaring at the floor. "This one somehow crawled its way out of whatever shithole it was in."

"How do you know?" Dean asked.

"Whatever we saw tonight—it was the demon. Not a man it was possessing, but the demon itself, standing on its own two feet. There's no other way it could...vanish like that. The normal demons we deal with--no way they could do that. But the Grigori can."

Demons couldn't act on earth without a human host—without possessing someone, they were useless clouds of smoke. There were a few rituals that could made them autonomous for short periods of time, but they had to be performed by someone else, and it was temporary—long enough to wreak a little mayhem, maybe, but nothing as _controlled_ as what they'd seen tonight.

"What does that mean?" Sam asked.

John shook his head. "I've never dealt with one of these things before. Most of the time, they do possess people, and I doubt they can last for long without a host. But when it's on its own...it's powerful. And there's no way I know of to destroy it in that form. It's practically incorporeal."

"But if it's inside a human, we can shoot it," Dean said, "and whatever it is that makes the Colt tick...that would do the rest."

The idea of shooting a possessed man to kill the demon didn't disturb him as much as it might have before.

"Can the Grigori..." Sam started. "Can they enter dreams?"

Without looking up, he saw both heads swing toward him. "What?"

Folding his arms across his chest and gripping his arms, he said, "I think...I've been dreaming of him. The man with the yellow eyes." He barely stopped himself from wincing in anticipation of their reaction.

Dean and John looked at each other for a long moment. Sam didn't lift his head to see what expressions they were. "You _think_ you've been dreaming of it?" John said, his voice low.

"I've never remembered when I woke up. Not until I saw him—_it_—tonight. Now, I've been starting to remember some of it. I remember the eyes."

"Yellow eyes," Dean said.

"Yeah." Still avoiding their faces, he asked, "Is it possible?" When John didn't answer, he finally chanced a glance upward, afraid to see disappointment and anger directed once again at him.

Instead, he saw only his own sorrow and defeat reflected in his father's eyes, and a lump grew in Sam's throat. He could have taken anger. This was...worse. So much worse.

John cleared his throat and when he spoke, his voice was calm. Or not calm—emotionless. "This is a special case in so many ways, Sammy. We don't know how this works—with you or with the Grigori. But...it might be possible. The Grigori's specialty was...seducing and convincing, whether they appealed to sexual desire or greed or confusion or a craving for something else. Dreams would seem like the ideal way to do it."

Sam couldn't help sinking further into his corner.

_Succumbing to evil's seduction. So weak. So desperate for..._

For what? What weakness had the Grigori preyed on?

_("...so proud of you...")_

A childish wish for approval. Was that it? Could it really be something so stupid, when he'd grown—_really_ grown—into his own man, now, at his brother's side? When he _knew_, logically, that his father probably loved him as much as...well, almost as much as...

Oh God.

He _had_ been thinking that. And he'd let the demon worm through.

"What does it want?" he asked, hearing how small his voice was. "Why us? The psychics." Because it was clear, now, who it was that this demon was targeting. "He fed me his blood. Said I was one of his children. One of his."

"The Grigori have always tried to leave traces of themselves behind," John said lifelessly. "A new generation. Maybe this is their way of...marking their chosen ones."

_("...But I'm not your son."_

_"It's not that simple...")_

As Sam thought back on what he knew of the lore about Grigori and their offspring... A sharp laugh burst abruptly from him. "So, what—we're like the new Nephilim?" Jesus. This was insane.

Dean rolled his eyes. "You're not a Nephilim, Sam."

"Nephil," he corrected automatically, making Dean huff a short laugh of his own.

"Yeah, well, being a grammar Nazi isn't grounds for being drowned in a month-long flood."

Sam looked at him in surprise, wondering for a moment how well Dean really knew Biblical lore, then berated himself for forgetting that his brother knew more than he usually admitted, even about something he didn't believe in. Still, Sam was the one who'd read those pages over and over, looking for history or direction or meaning.

" '_The Nephilim were on the earth in those days—and also afterward_,' " he quoted. "They weren't all wiped out. Or if they were...maybe this—what's happening right now—is what it meant."

"You can't take things like that literally, Sam, you know that," Dean insisted. "The stories in the Bible have been changed so much most of them don't even resemble the truth anymore. Right, Dad?"

But John was avoiding their gaze again. Sam's stomach dropped. "Dad?" The man didn't answer or look up. "Oh God. You think I am. Or something like them. You think I'll become...corrupt." It hurt like a physical wound that his father would think it. Worse...was the thought that it could be true.

He thought of the hot thrill that came every time he moved something just by wishing it and felt sick.

"They say the Nephilim destroyed each other," he realized.

"There's no such _thing_ as Nephilim," Dean growled, annoyed.

Sam shook his head. "It doesn't matter. The lore had to come from somewhere. What if something like this has happened before? Psychics rising up. Whatever's in us...it's _pushing_ us. Trying to break us. We're being eliminated. Most of the other psychics did horrible things, and then they destroyed _themselves_. And Andy even killed his brother."

The thought was beyond chilling. Dean was saying something, but Sam wasn't listening.

"We have to stop me," he heard himself say through a daze of horror, "before I become like them... You have to stop me."

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_"Because..." Trepidation flickered in Sam's eyes. "Because there's a war coming."_

XXXXXXXXXX

Notes:

First, please tell me if I got the singular of _Nephilim_ wrong. Should it be spelled _Nephil_ or _Naphil_ or something else?

Azazel's name caught my attention as part of Grigori mythology. I don't know if this is what the show intends/intended, but it makes total sense to me. It makes even more sense going by the mythology I've decided on for this story. I've altered some aspects in the _reality-is-different-from-lore_ sense, but I'm not an expert in mythology, especially when it deals with Biblical canon or apocrypha, so please let me know if something's terribly off. I know some people don't like things in the Bible being referred to as _lore_ with the implication that it's changed as it was passed down the grapevine, but it's Supernatural. This is the only thing that works.

It helps that one of the other leaders—_the_ leader—is Samyaza (spelled various ways, including Shemyaza, etc. depending on different languages and translations and versions), which, of course, makes me think of our Sammy. Sam's name reminds me of quite a few mythical baddies, actually, which is awesome—like Samael, for example, which brings up quite a few interesting thoughts about Lilith. (Lilith won't make an appearance here—just my rambling thoughts).


	19. Chapter 19

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: A transition chapter, mostly. The climax approaches, mes amis.

XXXXXXXXXX

_"These people out there, these psychics. Are they dangerous?"_

_"No. Not all of them."_

_"But some of them are. Some are very dangerous."_

_("Simon Said")_

XXXXXXXXXX

"We have to stop me," Sam said, sounding dazed, "before I become like them... You have to stop me."

Dean was so tired. "Sam." Sam made a small movement, like a flinch. "You're thinking about this way too hard. No one's saying you'll become anything. We know you—we don't think that." He hardened his voice. "Do we, Dad?"

John was silent for too long. Then, he slowly, almost reluctantly, "Even the Nephilim...some saw them as giants. Heroes." His tone said clearly that he himself wasn't convinced by the argument.

"That explains your freakish height," Dean said, forcibly pasting a smirk on his face.

Sam snorted humorlessly. "Giants, right. And others called them 'Terrors' or...or 'Devastators.' "

_Never. It won't happen. I won't let it._

"No," Dean said firmly. "Uh uh. Lots of people go Dark side without a fucking drop of demon blood in them. You're not any more special than anyone else. Got me?"

"Dean, what if I can't help it? What if I turn into something...evil, and I can't tell?"

It wasn't even a matter of soothing his brother's frazzled nerves. Dean knew, with more certainty than he had in anything else, that his Sammy would never become one of the things he hunted. He didn't have a fucking clue what _was_ going on, but it wouldn't be that. "I'll be here," he said simply. "I'll look out for you." For once, he let all the confidence he felt show on his face. Sam looked taken aback, then flushed red and looked away.

Sam swallowed and asked, his voice a whisper, "What if that's not enough?"

"It'll _be_ enough," Dean said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "It's been enough our whole lives. Nothing's going to change now."

Sam met his gaze, swallowed hard again, and nodded, taking a long breath. Dean could see him relax, just slightly, and couldn't suppress a welling of satisfaction that he'd done that. He could see the moment when, bolstered by the exchange, Sam's mind turned back to the case—to the Grigori. Speaking to their father now, he said, "This demon, then. What now? How do we kill it?"

Because they would. Anything else wasn't an option.

Rubbing his face with his hands, John sighed. Dean wanted to either shrink away or lash out, because this...this wasn't like his father. The ferocity that had always spurred him—spurred all of them—forward was dulled. He was starting to wonder whether anything would be left if that fire left the man completely.

But, whatever had happened that night, he was still John Winchester. Finally, he said, "Okay. Okay, Sam, do you remember anything else from your...dreams that might be important? What its plans are?"

Sam's eyes unfocused slightly in that way they did when he was trying to remember something. It was becoming an all-too-familiar occurrence these days. Tentatively, he said, "The yellow-eyed man—I mean, _demon_...it's been encouraging me to practice using my abilities. He said I need to be ready."

"Ready?"

"Because..." Trepidation flickered in Sam's eyes. "Because there's a war coming."

Dean caught his breath. This had always _been_ a sort of war for them, one they'd been fighting their whole lives. But this was different. If one of the fucking Grigori was preparing for a war—this was _big_.

John sat back. "A war." He shook his head. "He's trying to use you and the other children?"

Sam hesitated, frowning. "I'm not sure. I think...he only wants one of us."

"What does that mean? Which one?"

Exhaling hard, he answered, "Whichever one of us survives."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Josh thought the demon was testing them. Testing _you_. That's why so many of the others went off the deep end." The others. Not Sam.

Sam nodded. "That's what it sounded like. Weeding out the ones who couldn't make it."

John drummed his fingers against the arms of the chair. "How many are left?" he wondered.

"He mentioned that there's one other," Sam remembered. "But not a name."

"Could he have meant Andy?" Dean asked suddenly.

John furrowed his brow. "Andy? You mentioned that name before."

"Andy Gallagher, another psychic. We met him earlier this year—he was fine. Not homicidal or...or suicidal or anything."

John grunted. "Maybe not yet," he said darkly. "We'll have to keep an eye on him in case." Sam twitched at that. Dean cursed inwardly at his father's careless choice of words.

"We'll call him in the morning," Dean decided. "Sam, you still have his number?"

"Uh, yeah I should," Sam said. "Dean, you don't think the demon was talking about _Andy_? It's not like him."

It was John who answered, "He could still be dangerous. He might have changed, or been changed since then."

Dean turned his scowl onto the older man. Nice_, Dad. Good going_. Dean had run through conversations like this with Sam more than once in the past year, since the visions had started. He'd been able to calm his brother's worries, but now, with everything they knew...and their dad was only making things worse.

Sam was chewing on his lower lip in thought or anxiety. "Well, it might be Andy or it might not. Either way, there's still someone else out there, and if he's been dreaming about this Grigori demon, he might not realize anything's wrong, like..." _'Like I didn't notice,'_ Dean heard in the unfinished sentence.

John was nodding. "In the morning, we'll go through records of all the psychics we know of and see if we can find someone missing from the pattern." A spark reappeared in his eyes. "Maybe we can find this sonuvabitch after all."

Their father rose from the chair, but Dean was watching Sam, who looked more scared than ever. But when his brother turned to the man, his expression was determined. "Yes, sir," Sam said, his voice hard and full of steel and suppressed emotion. Dean wondered how it was possible to be so proud of his little brother at the same time that he mourned so deeply the child Sam would never be again.

XXXXXXXXXX

Dad wasn't avoiding looking at Sam anymore. He had been before—Dean could admit that to himself even if he wouldn't to his brother.

Not anymore, though. Now it was...just different. Each look was long and appraising, as if he were wondering, _wondering..._

Dean turned away from the looks Dad sent Sam that Sam pretended not to notice. "Give me your phone again, Sam," he said.

"No use," Sam said.

"Come again?"

His brother rubbed tiredly at his eyes and turned the open laptop to face him. "Andy's not going to pick up."

Dean bent closer to read the news article, and his jaw tightened. "He was murdered." Scanning down further, "They don't know who yet." They hadn't known Andy well, but...he'd been a good guy.

Sam made a disgusted sound. "You have to wonder?" And then, "I can't believe I didn't see this beforehand, in a vision or something."

_We don't know for sure who it was_, he wanted to say. But he'd been saying it all year, or a variation on it, and there was no reason to deny it anymore. "This other guy, then. Whoever Yellow-Eyes was talking about."

"That or the demon itself, or something working with it. And we don't even know if the other person's a guy or a girl."

John stood. "And it could be either. Of the psychics I've been able to track, there are two left besides you. One is Jake Talley—a soldier."

A fighter, then—and with who knew what psychic ability. "Could he have killed Andy?" Dean asked.

"He's overseas in Afghanistan."

Dean lifted his eyebrows. "Yeah, that'd make it harder. Who else?"

"Ava Wilson. Her fiancé was found murdered in their bed, and she's been missing for months."

"That's sounds pretty condemning."

Sam closed the laptop and leaned on it. "Then we have to find her, see if she's gone over to the demon."

"And do what, from there?" Dean said.

"Stop her," Sam said, as if it were obvious, surprising Dean. 

"Stop her, as in, _stop_ her?" he asked. 

"If she's killing people," Sam said defensively. "And anyway, she's our best lead—the _only_ lead we have on the demon."

Trying to read the expression on his brother's face, but knowing he was right, Dean nodded. "Okay. So where was she last seen?"

Closing his notebook and tucking away various papers, John said, " Peoria. We're going to Illinois."

XXXXXXXXXX

It didn't take long for them to realize that they wouldn't learn much in Peoria. Ava Wilson had vanished weeks ago and hadn't left a clue behind. All of them were on edge and getting irritated.

"We're getting nowhere," Sam said in frustration. Dean looked up at the sound of a newspaper being thrown hard onto the bed. "She's just disappeared."

"Well, we do know something. There was sulfur at her house—it was definitely a demon."

"Because _that's_ news," Sam grouched.

Dean was about to snap back when a buzzing sound cut him off. John reached for his cell phone and barked, "What!"

A moment later, he repeated, "What?" He turned back to the table and sifted through his charts and notes until he'd pulled out a map. "Where?"

Dean moved closer to watch his father hastily uncap a pen and outlined a section of the map. His brother's footsteps followed him and they both peered curiously at it. Finally, John straightened and said, "Thanks, Bobby. Call us if you hear anything else." He stopped, listening, and glanced at Dean and Sam. "Yeah, they're both...they're good. We're good. Be careful, Bobby."

"What'd Bobby say?" Sam asked as soon as the phone was closed, pointing at the map. "And what's that?"

"Joshua called him; Caleb, too."

"Caleb Reeve?" Dean asked. "Is he okay?"

"Yeah. Same story—a minor demon paid him a visit, looking...for us, but he'd already been warned by Joshua."

"And?" Sam pressed impatiently.

"Bobby's been hearing of demonic omens in Wyoming, on a scale even he's never seen before. If there was any doubt before... This is huge, boys. Bigger than we could have imagined."

Sam shifted. " _'Bind them fast for seventy generations in the valleys of the earth, till the day of their judgment.'_ Maybe the Grigori are rising...maybe they're getting ready."

Dean stared at him incredulously. "Dude. Did you memorize the whole fucking Bible?" Not for the first time, he wondered just how much religion had meant to his brother.

Sam shrugged. "I looked up everything I could about the Grigori after last night, and I found that passage."

He snorted. "Yeah, and memorized it, you geek." It was only after he said it that he realized Sam had probably read those parts over and over until the words had been burned into his brain. Obsessing as usual, except that it was even more personal this time. "And 'seventy generations?' You can't tell me it's exactly seventy generations."

Sam gaped at him. "Seriously? If Judgment Day comes, you're going to nitpick about proper timing?"

"Judgment Day," Dean scoffed, disbelieving. "You're kidding me, right?"

John interrupted them. "You're being too literal, Sam. I don't give a damn if the demon's just making trouble or if it thinks the apocalypse is coming. But whatever the reason is, if demons are gathering, this is going to be war."

"But what are they doing?" Dean asked. "Why are they gathering there?"

"Here"—John pointed to the area he'd circled in Southern Wyoming—"is the exception. It's completely quiet in here, almost like they can't get in. We don't have a clue why not."

It wasn't ringing any bells for Dean, and he could tell by the look on Sam's face that his brother was coming up empty as well. "We have to figure out what's so special about that place. What's keeping them out."

"And why they want to get in," Sam added. He checked his watch and grimaced. "The library's closed now."

"Go first thing tomorrow," John said. "I'll contact people who might have some ideas."

That night, Dean woke briefly when Sam crawled out of bed and heard the laptop booting up. Shaking his head into his pillow, he sighed and fell asleep again.

The next time he woke, it was to his father shaking his shoulder, saying, "Sam's gone."

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_"What did you do?" Sam snarled, taking a few steps backward. "Where the hell am I?"_

_The demon spread his arms. "Welcome to Cold Oak. D'you like it?"_


	20. Chapter 20

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes:

XXXXXXXXXX

_"We gotta find him, Dean. And I swear I'm gonna tear that son of a bitch apart."_

_("All Hell Breaks Loose Part 2")_

XXXXXXXXXX

Sam felt the crick in his neck before he opened his eyes. His face was pressed against a hard surface, and he knew he'd fallen asleep in front of the laptop again. He wondered what time it was and decided he should probably get up from where he was lying because the moisture was starting to soak through...

_...Moisture?_

Alarmed and fully awake now, he sat up quickly, blinking, and found himself sitting on damp ground in freaking Frontierland.

Dean, his father, his weapons...they were nowhere in sight. And neither was anyone else.

Rising to his feet, he backed toward the side of a house, not wanting anything to be able to sneak up behind him. Instead of the wood paneling, however, he stepped backward into flesh.

Jumping, he whirled away. A man stood there, dressed as a worker. There was something unsettling about how unperturbed the man was—by the emptiness of the surroundings as well as by the fact that someone had almost stepped on him. Still, since there was no one else around, Sam cleared his throat and said cautiously, "Uh, hi. I'm...kinda lost. Could you tell me where we are?"

The man raised an eyebrow, saying, "Oh, sure I could." He blinked, and yellow suffused his eyes.

A spike of fear jolted through Sam. "You."

The yellow-eyed demon smiled. "Howdy, Sam." The smile, which had seemed so welcoming in his dreams, now looked only predatory.

"What did you do?" he snarled, taking a few steps backward. "Where the hell am I?"

The demon spread his arms. "Welcome to Cold Oak. D'you like it?"

Sam shivered despite himself. Cold Oak, South Dakota—it was the most haunted town he knew of. It certainly explained why there was no one else here.

He opened his mouth to speak, only to close it again before he could say, _'You lied to me.'_ He shook his head in stunned disgust when he realized part of him actually felt hurt at the betrayal. "What do you want, demon?" he spat instead, then, "_Christo!_"

The demon tsked, his yellow eyes unblinking. "Sammy. You think silly tricks like that will work on me? I'm not just a demon, you know."

Sam stiffened and resisted the childish urge to say _'Don't call me Sammy,'_ because hadn't the demon called him that dozens of times before in his dreams? "I know what you are. You're one of the Grigori."

"You can give me whatever mortal names you want, kid. Me? I go by Azazel."

_Azazel_. The seducer of mankind himself.

"What do you want?" Sam asked again.

"Just what I've wanted all along," Azazel told him. "Progress."

_What?_ Sam stared hard at him, as if he could read an explanation in the unmoving eyes. "Some progress," he said. "Looks a lot more like murder to me."

Azazel gave him a look of mock-disappointment. "I thought you were the smart one in the family, Sammy. Humans would have _nothing_ without us. Medicine, technology, _civilization_...even those guns you wave around. Where do you think the inspiration for all of those came from? We made your race everything it is today." He sneered. "And for that, you self-righteous people hunted us down. Made me your scapegoat."

"So what do you need me for?"

"I can't do it on my own, kid. I need a soldier. More than a soldier—a leader."

Sam narrowed his eyes. "And that's why you killed all the other psychics." He snorted in disgust. "I can't even count how many lives you've ruined."

"Who here hasn't killed someone? You, of all people, want to cast the first stone?"

"I've never killed other humans."

Azazel laughed. "Well, now, don't you think that's a little racist? Vampires are people, too. And how about werewolves? Most of them turn back after you shoot them in the heart—and then they have a few, last, confused moments to see you and wonder why the hell a young man like yourself is murdering them in cold blood."

Sam's jaw tightened, remembering the last werewolf they'd hunted—she hadn't even realized what she was. But... "Even then, we only kill them because there's no other way to stop the deaths they'd cause otherwise. Unlike you."

"We're not that different, kid. It's just our reasons that are different, and you'd be surprised, Sammy, how much your justifications can change over a couple of millenia."

"Bullshit."

Azazel grinned. "Is it? You're not sure, are you? _'Psychics.'_ You think you're just humans with a gift?"

Licking his lips, he swallowed and said, "Then what?"

The grin became a mocking smirk. "Why, Sammy—you're on your way to being a demon. Evolution, right before our eyes."

"It's not the same."

"Mindreaders plant some of their consciousness into other people's brains. That doesn't sound a little bit like possession to you? And you...you've got the power to do almost anything demons can do, or you will once I've trained you. You've even had a taste of demon blood. And _I've_ had a taste of your wrath, and, Sam...it burns hot as hell, doesn't it?"

"I hope it burns _you_, you sonuvabitch!"

"Nope. Not a bitch. Haven't you read your Bible? I'm a _Son of God_," Azazel sneered, his lip curling scornfully. "You know I'm right, Sam. You have the potential—you just have to make the right choice. You can't understand yet how much I'm offering you. You know that rush you feel when you use your power? That's _nothing_ compared to what you could have."

"I'm a hunter," Sam said, lifting his chin defiantly. "I'll never follow you."

The demon nodded condescendingly. "That's right. You _save_ people. Well, Sammy, here's the thing. I've got a few more people for you to save. You just have to do a few things for me in return."

"I'm not helping you," he repeated flatly.

"We've had this conversation before." Sam tilted his head, his mind whirring through what he remembered of the dreams."Don't you remember? _'Is there nothing you want more than killing the demon?' _"

Realization sank in, and he pushed a step closer, hissing, "What have you done to them?"

Azazel held out his hands."Nothing...yet. But slow down, kid. You're forgetting something else we talked about that night. You're not the only one left standing."

"Ava Wilson," he said, looking around as if expecting to see the woman suddenly standing there. "You sent her to..."

"Ava?" Azazel chuckled. "Oh, she was close—surpassed my every expectation. But she's been dead for weeks now—defeated by my reigning champ." The demon shifted his gaze to something beyond Sam's view. "Here he is now. Sam, meet Jake Talley. I've already told Jake who you are; hope you don't mind."

Sam turned and moved until he could see both figures at once. A tall man in military fatigues stood several feet away, looking tense but sharp.

"I thought Jake was..."

"Overseas? And where did _you_ fall asleep last night?"

_Shit. _How powerful would something have to be to do something like that?

"Now that the introductions are over with," Azazel continued, "I have an assignment for you, Jake. Once you leave here, you're going to kill John and Dean Winchester."

Sam stopped breathing.

Jake's eyes fixed on Sam's, and he thought he saw regret pass through them.

Azazel was watching him, too. "There's a way to stop it, Sammy. Only one of you is getting out of here alive. Who's it gonna be? If you win, I'll let Daddy and big brother go free, as long as you take care of Annabel and Mary Talley for me."

The name _Mary_ struck an even more strident chord in Sam. He stared at Jake, and then swung his head back to Azazel. "You can't..."

"Oh, I can. Let's go, boys. Time's a-ticking, and the clock starts...now."

XXXXXXXXXX

"The laptop's still here," Dean said immediately, but John shook his head.

"If he found something, he might have left it when he took off. His bag's gone."

That had Dean scrambling out of the bed. No way. Sam hadn't left, not again. After a year together—

But when he reached under the bed, his hand hit a familiar, canvas material. He frowned and he yanked it out, saying, "Dad, it's right here." As John looked up in surprise, Dean realized that the man hadn't been with them long enough to learn that Sam always kept his bag under the bed so no one would trip over it. The dread he'd felt of Sam's leaving on his own was quickly replaced by rising panic, because Sam might leave the laptop, but he wouldn't go without any of his belongings.

Unless he knew where the demon was, and...

"Where's the Colt?" he asked sharply. John froze for an instant, staring at him, before striding to the table and ripping open the bag that sat next to it.

When he emerged, though, it was with the Colt in one hand and the other holding the bag open to show that all their other weapons and flasks of holy water were still there. That was when Dean knew for sure that Sam hadn't left. Something had taken him.

"Fuck," Dean muttered. He fumbled with the zipper on Sam's duffel bag and dug through. It was unquestionable—his brother hadn't just gone out for groceries, not without his wallet, and he wouldn't have left even for a walk without his knife.

He reached for his cell phone, still hoping he'd be able to reach Sam—but the other phone sitting right next to his killed that idea, too.

"Where could he have gone?" John asked.

"What do you mean?" Dean said, hearing the panic starting to creep into his voice. "He didn't just leave."

"Are you sure about that?"

Their father still thought, after everything, that Sam might abandon them, even now when they were so _close_ to what they'd been hunting their whole lives.

"Jesus, Dad! His wallet, his weapons, his research, his clothes, his fucking cell phone—they're all still here. Something happened to him; we have to find him!"

"Language," John said absently, and Dean raked a hand once through his hair in exasperation before opening the laptop. "What are you doing?"

"He got up last night to look something up," Dean said. "Maybe it'll tell us where he is."

A few windows were open on the screen, all of them about something in Wyoming. No surprise there.

Then the words _'Samuel Colt'_ caught his eye.

He bent in to read more carefully and then clicked through a few links, reading quickly through the information. Everything clicked into place as he pieced together Sam's half-finished research, and he reached hastily for the map they'd been looking at before.

"Dean, what is it?"

"Hold on," he said distractedly. He grabbed the pen and skimmed through until he found the name of the first church, marking its location on the map. When he'd hit all of them, he leaned back to study the map again.

Five churches built by Samuel Colt, all of them at the periphery of the area John had circled the night before. And connecting them...

"A pentagram," John breathed."Cold iron railroad tracks connecting points of consecrated ground. He built an enormous Devil's Trap. That's why the demons are stuck outside of it."

As the words sank in, Dean thought aloud, "There's a cemetery right in the middle. So the demons are trapped outside. But..."

"What?"

"Aren't Devil's Traps usually made to keep something _in_?"

XXXXXXXXXX

Azazel was gone. Sam and the other—Jake—were the only ones left in the ghost town.

"Jake," he started warily, "you don't want to do this. It's just trying to turn us against each other. My family and I, we've been after this demon for years—if you help us, we can beat it together..."

"No," Jake said, taking a step toward him. Sam moved automatically to keep him a safe distance away and in his line of sight. "I can't risk it."

"You don't wanna kill two innocent people," Sam said, hoping he could establish a connection with the other man. "You don't want that on your conscience."

"I don't have anything against your family, but I got a mom and a baby sister to think about," Jack said, almost apologetically. "They've got no one to protect them. From what I hear, your dad and your brother can take care of themselves."

Sam tried a different tack. "He's not going to stop with just De...just my brother and my dad. The way he's been threatening us—you really want to be serving this thing? Don't play its game, man. Come with me."

Jake's hands were coming up as he bent his knees, lowering himself into a fighter's stance. "I'm getting out of here alive. I'm sorry, but if one of us has to die...it's not gonna be me."

Sam had a second to wonder what abilities Jake had before he was knocked flat on his back by a punch far stronger than anything a normal human could possibly unleash.

When his brain cleared enough to think, he found himself lying in the ruins of a fence he'd just been thrown through. Then he was staring up at the Jake's impassive face and there was no time to wonder anymore. He shuffled back, further out of reach.

_I'm doing this for Dean and Dad. _

He'd never tried anything on this scale before—chairs in a motel room were one thing but this...

_Keep it simple. Just knock him out and run._

He rolled aside to avoid the next kick and came to his feet. Focusing, he imagined the man in front of him spilling his brother's blood and, with a cry, he _pushed_ with all his might.

Eyes wide with surprise, Jake hurtled back, hitting the side of a building hard with a grunt.

Sam pushed himself up, seeing Jake do the same, though his movements were more wary now—less confident. He noted distantly that his head wasn't even aching, and that he was more alert than he should have been after a blow like that. His own confidence lifted higher as he saw the wavering uncertainty on Jake's face.

Looking around, he saw a thick, sharp plank of wood lying on the ground and, with a thought, it was rushing into his hand even as euphoric heat rushed through his core.

This was..._good_.

"Put that down," Jake's voice yelled across the distance they'd thrown each other.

"Like hell I will," Sam called back.

Jake shook his head as if confused, and tried again, enunciating clearly, "Put. It. Down."

This time, there was a tickle at the back of his head, and Sam realized what the man was doing. "Mind control won't work," he said. "You're not the first person who's tried it on me."

"It will," Jake said. There was no more regret left in his expression. "I'm gonna kill you, Winchester!" He bared his teeth and ripped a _freaking branch_ off the tree he'd crashed into. _Jesus._

Sam felt the cold fury of the hunt filling him. He drew on the ecstatic feeling that came with using his abilities, and he breathed, "Not if I kill you first."

_Kill him first. For Dean and Dad._

Jake was running toward him again. Sam bared his teeth, and as he prepared himself to fight, he forgot to think about the fact that, this time, his enemy was human.

XXXXXXXXXX

It took eight hours to reach the Wyoming border and another two to get to the right cemetery. A goddamn cowboy cemetery, of all things, which was wasted because Dean couldn't even manage a smirk at the thought of John Wayne holding off the apocalypse with a revolver.

It didn't take five minutes to realize Sam wasn't there.

"Dammit, where the hell...? Dad, what are you doing?" he called impatiently.

John was standing in front of a crypt, fingers tracing over the lines carved into the stone. His voice carried across the still cemetery. "I know what this is."

_I don't care what the hell that is._ "Sam!" he called. "Sammy!"

"Dean, stop."

"What!"

"Sam's not here," John said, and the surety in his voice made Dean want to scream. "But this might be connected."

Dean crossed the cemetery to his father, who said, "Look at the pattern here."

He blinked. "Pentagrams are protective symbols. But...inverted?"

"Yeah. It's like a Sigil of Baphomet."

"That's some pretty serious dark mojo, isn't it? Dark-like-_demonic_, dark?"

"Not just that. Son, this is...this a Devil's Gate. A damn door to hell."

Dean reeled back in disbelief and loathing. "I guess we know what Samuel Colt was trying to keep in." He frowned and leaned in closer. "What's that, in the middle?" he said, looking at the hole in the middle of the sigil.

John snorted. "Use your brain, Dean. It's a gate—what do you think that is?"

Ducking his head slightly in embarrassment, he said, "Oh. A keyhole."

John nodded distractedly, then turned sharply. "You smell sulfur?" he asked.

Looking in alarm first at the gate to make sure it hadn't somehow spontaneously opened, Dean then turned to squint in the same direction as his father. "There's a lot of demonic activity," he reminded John. "Probably right up to the perimeter of the Devil's Trap."

"Is that...?" John's eyes were fixed in the distance. Dean followed them until he could see the silhouette of a figure standing casually next to his father's truck.

"Possession?"

"Probably."

"You've got...?"

"Yeah." The Colt was already in John's hands. "Come on. Watch my six."

They stopped short of the car, still uncertain what to make of the shadowed figure. "What are you doing here?" John barked, raising the gun.

Dean cursed himself for not having brought holy water with him. The pistol he held wouldn't do much good if it was a demon.

The figure stepped forward, and they had just enough time to see a flash of yellow eyes before they were both lifted off their feet and slammed into the side of the truck.

"Christo," John managed.

Yellow-Eyes smirked. "John. Dean," he said, bending down to pick up the Colt. "So nice of you to bring me this."

"I'm gonna shove it up your ass," Dean ground out, and the demon only laughed.

"What do you want with it?" John said, muscles cording as he strained against unseen restraints.

"Oh, I'm not going to go do anything with it," the demon said. "But Sammy will." The yellow eyes looked at each of them speculatively. "I'm going to need a new host."

"Fuck you," Dean whispered fiercely, swallowing his fear. If the bastard used his skin to hurt Sam...

"Dean. Sammy would never hurt his big brother, would he?"

"You're be surprised at what my brother could do," Dean breathed, hoping he was right. Sam was strong--he'd be able to do what was necessary.

The demon cocked his head to the side and frowned at him. "You've got some charm that's keeping me out," it said. There was a moment when Dean wondered why it would keep demons out as well as psychics and then wondered whether it was so different after all. Hope rose, but he stayed silent. "You know, it wouldn't be hard for me to just find it and take it away from you."

Taking the chance that it was bluffing, Dean bluffed back, "Yeah? Then why don't you?"

But then, it turned its yellow eyes to his father. "Because I know something that would be even more fun."

XXXXXXXXXX

They were circling each other again, both breathing hard and battered, when Jake ordered, "Stop."

Sam faltered, feeling the unnatural influence pushing at his mind. He wasn't sure whether he was weakening or Jake was getting better, but the commands were getting harder to resist.

He recovered, but not fast enough to avoid being picked up like he weighed nothing at all, and then he was hitting something hard and slumping to the ground against the wall of whatever building they'd fought their way to now. The man was strong as all hell, but he was fast, too, and moved like the trained, experienced fighter he was.

Jake had an iron club in his hands now—Sam hadn't seen many useful, loose metal objects lying around, but then, Jake could have just ripped it from something. Gasping for air, trying to stand without choking on pain from where he'd crashed against the wall, Sam snarled and _yanked_ the iron bar toward himself.

Jake was ready this time, though, and he held on with impossible strength, planting his feet and gripping his weapon more tightly. As Sam managed to get upright again, Jake suddenly ripped the bar away, making Sam lose his focus for an instant.

Without warning, the foreign feeling of Jake's anticipation washed over him, and an image flashed through his mind. Not taking the time to doubt a vision now, Sam threw himself back to the ground just as Jake drew a hidden knife, brought his hand back, and threw.

With a _thunk!_ the blade buried itself nearly up to the hilt in the wood behind him. Jake took advantage of the distraction and dove toward Sam, who rolled out of the way just in time to avoid getting hit head-on. "Don't move!" Jake screamed at him.

Now it was Sam who'd been prepared, and he drew on the seductive heat he associated with his abilities, pulling the warmth around his mind like a cloak. Jake grunted with effort and repeated the command. Sam felt his lips curl into a grin in return.

Scrambling back, he focused his eyes on the still-quivering knife, held out a hand, and _pulled_.

The hilt struck Jake in the cheekbone as the blade was dislodged from the wood, knocking the man aside but send the knife spinning off course. Desperate to have a weapon in his hands, Sam lunged, biting off a scream as his right hand closed on the sharp blade instead of the hilt. He quickly transferred the knife to his left hand, cradling the right against his chest, his stomach churning in anticipation as Jake found his feet again and attacked.

In the end, it was luck as much as anything else.

Locked together in close quarters and backed into a corner, Sam dodged a haymaker from hell and brought his elbow smashing hard into Jake's carotid artery.

Jake's eyes rolled up in his head and his limp weight collapsed onto Sam.

Sam went down, too, pinned under the other man's weight. He heaved the still form off and onto his back, then looked more closely. As he watched, the chest rose and fell once, twice, and then again and again. Still breathing, then.

_Not dead yet._

Without thinking, Sam knelt and used his uninjured right forearm to tip Jake's head back. Still feeling the exhilaration from using his abilities so freely, he brought the knife in his left hand to touch the exposed throat and began to press.

At the first drops of blood, the reality of his actions crashed over him, and Sam reeled back, overbalanced, and scuttled back on all fours, gasping and shaking and horrified at what he'd almost done.

_Kill him. Survival of the fittest_.

God. Jake just was a victim, too. What had they become?

What had _he_ become?

_Kill or be killed! If Jake lives, Dean and Dad die_, his mind screamed. _Dean would do it. He'd be strong enough to finish the job. He'd do it for me._

Wavering, Sam stared at Jake's motionless form and then at the bloody blade.

_No. Dean wouldn't want me to do this. Not to a human, not like this. _

_Dad would. If it was necessary. Even killing a man. To protect. _

"I'm not like Dad," he said aloud, not sure when he'd begun weighing his choices by his brother and his father."It's murder. I won't."

_...Not even to protect them?_

"It's murder," he repeated to himself. He forced the fingers of his left hand to uncurl. He let out a sigh of relief as the knife fell with a soft clatter.

A voice behind him said, "You're not done yet."

He twisted and stumbled to his feet. "Azazel."

"You haven't won yet."

Glaring, he gritted out, "I _will_ win. But not against Jake. _He's_ not the one I'm going to kill."

The demon cocked his head in a twisted imitation of human gesture. "I'd rethink that, if I were you."

Sam held his ground and didn't answer.

The demon's unnerving eyes searched his face. Then, he shrugged. "I'll admit I'm a little disappointed. But what the hell. Congratulations."

"You can shove your congratulations up your ass."

Azazel threw his head back and laughed at that. "Oh, Sammy. You're cute, you know—so much like your brother. That's almost exactly how he greeted me, oh...ten minutes ago."

Alarm spiked. "Where is he?" Sam demanded. "What did you do to them?"

"Not much," the demon said. "You'll see. That's where we're going now."

As Azazel turned away and began walking, dizzying euphoria suffused him again, and he staggered blindly until his arms found the side of a building. An image flashed before his eyes, and Sam whirled around reflexively and sidestepped just as Jake barreled into the space he'd just vacated, the abandoned knife gripped in his hand.

Instinct took over, and he twisted the knife out of the still-stunned Jake's hand and plunged it deep into the other man's chest.

Sam stood panting, frozen, unable to move or think. Blood oozed from where his right hand had been laid open; blood flowed over his left hand as Jake crumpled to the ground.

He didn't look away until slow clapping sounded behind him. Azazel's face was gleeful and his voice satisfied when he said, "I knew you could do it, Sammy. You pass."

Then Azazel snapped his fingers. Sam thought he saw the demon's human host drop in a heap to the ground, and then Cold Oak dissolved around him.

XXXXXXXXXX

_From the next chapter:_

_Sam's words caught in his throat as the demon reached back and pulled out the Colt. "Nah," Azazel said. "You're the winning horse, Sammy. In fact, I've a proposition for you."_


	21. Chapter 21

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes:

XXXXXXXXXX

_"He's not Dad...I think he's possessed."_

_("Devil's Trap")_

XXXXXXXXXX

Sometime between one blink and the next, Jake Talley's unseeing eyes disappeared and Sam was standing at the edge of a dark field full of... graves?

A cemetery.

He turned in a slow circle...and saw the Impala. Dad's truck.

And in front of the truck...

"Dean," he said, cradling his injured right hand as he started to stagger toward the figure. "DEAN!"

He knew something was wrong as soon as he drew near. Dad was nowhere to be seen, and his normally restless brother was standing too still, too stiff...

Not standing. _Held_. Unharmed, as far as Sam could see, but pinned against the truck. Just like he'd been pinned against the wall at Stanford like Jess had been like Monica like Mom...

Azazel was here, somewhere. He was doing this.

Dean's mouth moved, as if he were trying to speak but couldn't force the sounds past his lips. His wide eyes shifted deliberately to something behind Sam, though, and he whirled. "Dad!"

His father closed his eyes, and when they opened...

Yellow.

"Howdy, Sam," Azazel said again, and it was John Winchester's voice that rumbled through.

"Get out of him," Sam said in a low growl. "Get the fuck out of my father!"

His words caught in his throat as his father—_not him_, _Azazel, not him not him_—reached back and pulled out the Colt. "Nah," Azazel said. "You're the winning horse, Sammy. In fact, I've a proposition for you."

Sam stared in appalled fascination as his father's arms moved to caress the Colt and his father's voice spoke just like always before, even as he registered continually that the cadence of speech was wrong, the way the fingers moved over the gun, the way he was standing...it was all _wrong_. His father's face—his father's skin—but nothing else.

He'd done this before. That shapeshifter, a year and a half ago—a lifetime ago. He'd killed it then, and...

This time, the body _was_ his father's. But he, Sam, was also stronger now—he could still feel waves of power coursing through him, waiting just below the surface for him to command.

Dean wheezed out behind him, "Sam, don't, it's a—"

"Hush," Azazel said without looking, and Dean gasped and stopped talking, making Sam whip his head back to his brother to see him struggling for air against an invisible pressure.

"What do you want?" Sam asked for the second time, but the threat of Dean's being crushed against the truck erased the defiant tone from the question. Azazel nodded smugly, a smile breaking over John's face.

"Nothing big," he said, and Sam couldn't hold back a skeptical snort. Azazel only grinned wider. "Here," he offered, holding out the Colt. "I'll even give you this."

_What the...?_

Sam looked suspiciously from the revolver up to the man holding it. "What is this?"

"It's a revolver," the demon dead-panned. "In fact, they say that it can kill anything. Oh, come on, don't give me that face. Don't tell me you're not enjoying this, ah...brotherly banter we've got going."

Anger flared, and then the Colt was in his hand. Dean made a choking noise behind him, but Azazel's eyes were bright with something like hunger. "You're really getting the feel for that, aren't you?"

It wasn't until then that he thought about how he'd grabbed the gun when he was nowhere within reach of his father's body. Azazel knew perfectly well what had pushed him into developing that particular skill.

_Doesn't matter. I can kill him now. End it._

Sam raised the Colt in his left hand and pulled back the hammer. "Let my brother go."

His father's lips were still twisted in that grin. "Or what?" Azazel taunted. "You'll shoot your daddy?"

Sam held his ground, not lowering the gun but at a loss for what to do.

The demon looked past Sam."You think he'll do it, Dean?"

At that, Dean managed to force out, "Sam...don't..._Dad..._"

"Aw, big brother. Sometimes, someone's just gotta take one for the team. Sam here knows how to kill—he's damn good at it, too." Sam's breaths quickened. "You see that red on his hands? S'not his. The knife, right between Jake's ribs...it was like art, really. He's gonna be a good general for my people, aren't you, Sammy."

Sam didn't dare turn away from the demon—he knew he'd crumble if he saw what must be written on Dean's face now. He clenched his right hand over the split palm that was still oozing blood. "Why..." His voice cracked and he tried again. "Why did you give me the gun?"

Azazel walked toward him, his steps easy and completely unaffected by the Colt still pointed at his heart. He reached out a finger and tapped the barrel, pushing it downward. "It was my inspiration that taught your race to make these, you know. And, boy, has this one got its purpose."

"Get to the point," Sam whispered, his father's face right in front of his now.

Azazel raised John's arms placatingly, still wearing the mocking smirk. "I knew you'd come around eventually. I need you to walk into that cemetery there and find the crypt at the center. Don't worry; you can't miss it."

"What, and that's it?"

"Almost. There's a hole in the stone, just the right size for the barrel of a certain revolver. I don't need to spell it out for you, do I?"

"Why don't you do it yourself?" The answer hit him as soon as the words were out of his mouth. "Because you're a demon. And demons can't get in." He should have realized why they were standing outside the cemetery, never laying a foot inside it. He hadn't finished his research before landing in Cold Oak, but he'd had time to see the Devil's Trap laid out by railway lines.

"_Full-blooded_ demons can't get in," Azazel corrected him."But what I need you to do—I'm afraid full-blooded _humans_ can't do it, either, or I'd have had your brother here do it for me."

"Liar," Sam spat.

"Why would I lie when the truth is so much more of a kick in the balls? Come on; you're wasting time. It's easy as pie. No big deal."

Yeah, right. "How stupid do I look?" he said. "What'll it do?"

"You don't need to worry about that."

Sam huffed a disbelieving laugh. "You're kidding me, right?"

Azazel's eyes darkened, and he called, "Dean? You think I'm kidding?"

Sam turned to his brother just as the fabric of Dean's shirt was sliced open at the stomach.

"I can go further," Azazel said casually, and a shudder racked Dean's body as a thin, shallow line of blood appeared on the skin.

"Wait, stop! Stop!" Sam said, dropping his gun hand completely now and holding his blood-soaked hands out in entreaty. "No, stop. I'll..." He took a glance into the cemetery, where he could make out the large, stone shape.

God, what was he doing?

_You think Dean would want this? You think he and Dad wouldn't rather die than help the demon?_

Azazel's mouth pressed into a hard line. A moan ripped itself from Dean's throat as fresh blood welled, and then Sam didn't care what the other two men would think of this.

"Okay! I'll do it," he said quickly. "Just stop...I'll do it."

The yellow eyes flashed."That's my boy, Sammy. Remember, no cute tricks, now."

"Sam...don't do it..."

Wrenching his gaze away from Dean, Sam strode quickly into the cemetery, feeling his body tingle briefly as he crossed the threshold, before moving on until he could no longer hear Dean's voice calling him. He didn't look back, afraid of what he'd see.

The crypt would have been hard to miss, even if he hadn't been looking for it. The pattern cut into it wasn't completely familiar to him, but the significance of the pentagram, with two points upward, wasn't lost on him. A round hole was at the center of the engraving. He still didn't know what this would do, but it wouldn't be anything good.

_I can't do this_.

He chanced another look back.

_I can't not_. 

_Confiteor, Dean. Mea culpa. _

_Please forgive me._

In one smooth motion, he raised the Colt as if to fire and jammed it into the hole.

It fit (like a key into a lock), and, as the engraving began to rotate (like a lock turning), Sam realized.

It was a door—a gate.

Then a tremor rippled outward from the crypt—the _gate_—and knocked him away.

What had he done?

He knew the Trap had been broken when he turned to see Azazel standing there, John Winchester's strong arm securing Dean in a chokehold. "Nice work." He threw Dean to the ground, and he lay coughing lightly, an arm clutched around the bloodstain at his abdomen.

"Dean?" Sam asked. His brother raised his head, but his eyes were bleak.

"Sam," Dean rasped out. "That's a Devil's Gate."

Sam met Azazel's gleaming eyes for a second before turning to pull the Colt back out. Before he could reach it, though, he was spun around and propelled backward the last few feet until he slammed against the Gate, the Colt barely a foot from him but his hands held helplessly at his sides.

"You can't stop it now. You didn't think I'd..."

But Sam wasn't listening. Pooling his fear and panic and _fury_, he pictured the gun in his brother's hands, and then it was flying through the air. They'd played catch with harder objects than this, and, sure enough, Dean's hand rose to snatch the revolver from the air.

Dean rose haltingly to his feet, one hand around his bloody abdomen and the other holding the Colt, aimed at the demon.

As unperturbed as ever, Azazel laughed. "Go ahead. Shoot. Quick, now, the doors are going to open any second. Your daddy's in here"—he tapped a finger to his temple—"and he's screaming for you to do it. Come on, Dean. Pull the trigger."

Dean ground out, "You son of a bitch."

Amused, the demon said, "You really are a lot like your brother. Same style of repartee—he must have learned it from you. But now, can _you_ learn something from _him_? Kill a man for the cause? He's begging you in here, kid."

Sam could see Dean's arms shaking and knew without a doubt that he wouldn't shoot.

Azazel knew it, too. "You can't do it, can you. Because you need Daddy-dear, and little Sammy. You need them the way they've never really needed you."

"Dean," Sam whispered, then yelled, louder, "Dean, don't listen to him! He's lying! _I_ need--"

"You can't kill me. Because if you kill me, you kill Daddy, and you couldn't bear that, could you?"

Sam saw it the instant Dean's resolve firmed. "No," Dean said simply, and he aimed the Colt downward and fired into John's leg.

With a surprised cry, John fell to the ground and Sam felt the pressure against himself release.

Falling to the ground, Sam ran to his brother, who'd dropped to his knees. "Dean! Dean...hold your arm over this, we have to stop the bleeding...It's not deep, I'll stitch you up when we get..."

Just then, there was a creaking behind him.

The Gate opened, and then they were both bowled over by a cloud of black smoke.

"Sam! Where's Dad?" Dean was yelling. "Go check on him!"

"Son..." Both of their heads turned at the call. Wind whipped around them, and misty, shadowing, smoky forms were beginning to rush faster from the Gate. John had lifted himself on one elbow, his eyes their normal, dark brown and his expression broken. "It's still inside me, I can feel it!" their father screamed. "You shoot me! You shoot me in the heart, Dean!"

"No..." Dean whispered. "No, Dad, I _can't_...I can't kill you."

"Dean..." John turned to Sam. "Sammy, then, I'm begging you...I can't hold onto it much longer...Son...wait, wait, I know another way to get rid of it, but I need..."

Sam gasped as pain spiked briefly through his head, and he felt himself tumbling into his father's thoughts, surrounded pain and fear and anguish. And then...an image of Dean's gun._ What...?_

"Sam, please, you've gotta hurry! It's by the truck, I need..."

Not questioning for once, Sam obeyed and focused on the thought of Dean's Berretta lying discarded on the ground by the truck.

"Dad, please..." Dean moaned, the Colt falling from his hands. "Dad, I _need you_..."

Sam _heaved_ harder and the pistol came with blurring speed, coming to rest just beyond reach. With a pained grunt, desperation in his eyes, John dragged himself the few inches needed to grab the gun.

John turned back to them and flicked the safety off the gun. "You kill it, boys. You kill it."

Then their father turned the gun into his chest and pulled the trigger.

"_NO!_" Sam screamed, hearing his brother echo him as they lunged together toward John Winchester's dying form. Wordless howling filled his ears, and he wasn't sure whether the sound was coming from him or Dean or the wind--or the amassing demons swooping out.

Just as they reached their father, the eyes snapped back open, and yellow stared back at them.

"Ow," Azazel said, all traces of amusement gone. "You idiot Winchesters. You think a gun like that can hurt me? Only your _daddy's_ dying. He'll never survive a wound like that."

Realization dawned in all of them at once.

Sam reached out a hand and _pulled_ at the Colt. Just as it slapped into his palm, Azazel snarled wordlessly, and he was lifted and thrown aside to land on his back.

_No, kill it, have to kill it now now now now..._

Then Dean's fist was in his shirt, dragging him upright, and his brother's warmth was behind him, steady arms supporting him as he aimed. Black smoke was starting to drift out of John's mouth.

Sam fired.

The bullet struck home, as if following the other bullet into their father's heart. The body jerked grotesquely, flashing as if being shocked from within.

Their father's eyes stared at them for a second and blinked once before he dropped dead (dead, _dead_) to the ground.

Sam couldn't rip his gaze away until he felt Dean pulling roughly at his arm.

"Sam! The Devil's Gate! We have to close it!"

_No time. Don't think. Act. Now._

Dropping the Colt, Sam shook himself and ran after his brother, nearly blinded by the shadowy cloud of demons swarming out. Each brother made for one door of the Gate, pushing and pushing ineffectually against unyielding resistance...

Finally, Sam felt his door begin to give and he shoved harder, hearing his brother groan as he did the same.

And then the doors to Hell were closed, and they collapsed together at the base of the Gate, watching the storm of demons spread and disappear into the distance.

They leaned against the stone and against each other, panting for breath. Neither looked up or toward their father, each staring into his hands.

Though Sam's were stained with drying, cracking blood while Dean's were almost clean, Sam knew from the way Dean's breath hitched that they were both seeing the same thing.

"It's dead," he heard himself say. "We did it."

Next to him, Dean bowed his head. "It's over," he said, but it wasn't in agreement, and hearing the desolation in his voice, all Sam could feel was despair.

XXXXXXXXXX

Notes:

Only the epilogue next. Hope you've enjoyed the ride.

And Azazel's "easy as pie" comment is kind of my sideways tribute to kroki-refur (on livejournal; Refur on ff dot net) because of Stan's making people fall on pie. If you don't know her work, what are you doing at my stories when you should be reading hers?

Thanks!


	22. Epilogue

Title: Finding Home

Rating: PG-13/R for language, mostly

Disclaimer: Nothing you recognize is mine. I gain nothing of materialistic value from this.

Pairings: Gen.

Notes: So...er...this is it.

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**Epilogue:**

A Place To Call Home

XXXXXXXXXX

They needed somewhere to stay. Not just to clean up and have a cheap bed for the night—although that was their first problem, with Sam staring at his bloody arms as if surprised to see them, then rubbing absently at the rust-colored stains every few seconds. Dean thought it was a good thing Sam couldn't see his face, because there was blood splattered there, as well, although Dean wasn't sure how much was his and how much was from the other guy. Dean didn't know what his own face looked like and thought that was probably a good thing, too.

They didn't know what to do about Dad. Dean knew his injury wasn't critically serious, nor was the weeping wound on Sam's good hand. But they were both bleeding and in pain and exhausted, and they had to take care of the body because there was no way they were going to leave him lying there.

Dean had had to leave Sam sitting by himself, staring blankly at their father's body now, so that he could stagger to the Impala to pull two extra sheets from the back. Sam did seem to wake up and help bundle the body into the sheets—which wasn't easy because their father was so tall.

John Winchester had been so tall. Taller than Dean and taller than Sammy even though Sammy had outgrown them all in inches.

Sam had seemed so dazed that Dean was surprised to find the ground before him suddenly empty and his father gone. He jerked to his feet and found Sam's hand on his arm.

"Dean," his brother said, his voice rough and hoarse. "You blanked out for a minute. I put him in the car. Bobby says to go to him."

Dean thought it had to be past midnight now, and he remembered Bobby saying--a long time ago--there'd be hell to pay the next time they called at such an obscene hour. That made him remember that hell had just broken loose and that they'd be paying for a long time.

And because they needed somewhere to stay—a place they could call home, even for a little while, not just a room where they could clean up and have a bed for the night—Dean let his little brother lead him to the car. But once they were there, Sam seemed to forget how to open the door, and Dean had to prod him into the passenger seat before he took his usual seat behind the wheel.

"What about...the truck?" Sam asked in a small voice.

Dean had to swallow hard as he stared at the vehicle that Bobby had tried so hard to get rid of only because John had loved it so much. "We could each drive one and meet back a Bobby's," he said, not really meaning it.

"We could," Sam agreed, but he didn't open his door or move to get out. A minute later, Dean turned the key and they drove to South Dakota.

Sam made him stop an hour later and pull over. Dean didn't argue when his brother made him sit sideways on the passenger seat, pulling up his shirt to clean the cut along his stomach. He did argue when the needle and thread came out, because Sam was right-handed and could barely close that fist properly, much less sew up a wound, and Dean wasn't about to test Sam's ambidexterity now. Sam settled for taping butterfly bandages along the gash and padding it with so much gauze that Dean knew no amount of bleeding would soak it through. Then he stood and pushed his brother down onto the seat he'd just vacated, rinsing some of the blood away so he could see where exactly Sam was bleeding. When he was sure it was mostly just the one cut, he knelt to sew up the hand where it looked as if Sam had grabbed the wrong end of a knife or something.

"I did," Sam told him. "I missed and caught the wrong end." Dean didn't ask.

The second time Dean nodded off at the wheel, the car swerved abruptly enough to knock Sam out of his daze, and they switched places, Sam driving one-handed and gingerly using his right hand only to change gears. Ten minutes later, the car swerved again, and they parked at the side of the road, agreeing to rest for just an hour or so.

"You haven't slept at all," Dean said a half-hour later.

"Neither have you," Sam replied.

Dean drove for the next three hours without falling asleep. Then they switched again, so Sam was driving when they arrived at the auto shop that doubled as Bobby Singer's home.

Bobby was opening his door even before Rumsfeld started barking. Sam turned off the ignition but didn't move to get out of the car. Dean opened his door and met Bobby, who probably said some words about something but he wasn't quite sure what. Then he said, "...Sam..." and Dean shook his head to clear it.

"What?"

Bobby gave him a long look, then laid a hand on his cheek. "Hell, boy. You two need some sleep. Go look after your brother. I'll take your daddy." An odd panic started to rise at that.

"No." Dean looked up at Sam's voice and saw that he had stepped out after all, and the same alarm that Dean felt was reflected back in his brother's eyes. "No, we have to do it."

Bobby sighed. "I know you do. I'll bring him out of the car for you. Go up to the spare room, get yourselves cleaned up, and we'll take care of everything tomorrow. Or tonight. Whenever you're ready." Frowning, Dean looked up and saw that it was mid-morning now.

"But..."

"Sammy," Dean said, and Sam stopped.

They were almost in the door when Sam turned around and said, "Dean needs stitches."

Dean was too bemused by the abruptness of it, and he didn't argue when Bobby glanced at Sam's wrapped hand and then herded them both into the kitchen, making them sit while he left to find his first aid kit.

Sam was staring at nothing while they sat alone. Dean didn't try to say anything, but he jumped when Sam leaned back in the chair, suddenly nervous Sam was about to stand up and leave, except that was stupid because Sam didn't look like he was up to going anywhere. He always knew what to say, even if it was a lie. Not knowing now—it was so screwed up, how he felt at once so far from his brother and so scared of being more than a few feet away from him. It was screwed up.

_They_ were screwed up. And that wasn't even considering whatever they'd just let out of Hell.

"_You_ didn't let them out of Hell," Sam said dully. Dean hadn't realized he'd spoken out loud and wondered how much he'd said.

Bobby came in then, and Sam's unfocused eyes were suddenly sharp and alert, watching every movement that the older man made as he peeled back the carefully taped on gauze and stitched the wound. It was disconcerting to Dean, until Bobby went to change the dressing on Sam's hand, and he returned the favor, Sam's eyes still locked on his head as Dean's eyes fixed on the bandaged hand.

Dean didn't really remember cleaning up, but somehow he was in clean clothes when he found the pallet of blankets Bobby had left on the ground next to the camp bed. He sat down on them, but Sam turned to him after checking the window sill for salt (dammit, why hadn't Dean thought to do that himself, even if they _were_ at Bobby's?) and said, "We can share the bed."

_Okay_, he thought. "We can't," he said aloud. "It's not big enough for both of us anymore." Not like when they'd been little and stayed here when Uncle Bobby was helping their dad with a hunt...

Dean heard a tentative, "Jerk," offered above him. He took several moments too long, wondering which part of this situation Sam had pulled that out of, and by the time he realized what his response was supposed to be, the moment had passed.

He lay down and listened to Sam getting into the bed.

Some time later, he woke up with the words, _'You shoot me, son'_ ringing in his ears. It wasn't long before he heard Sam's whimpering, "I didn't know, I swear..."

He lay still, breathing and pretending to be asleep and listening to his brother, who was lying still and breathing and pretending to be asleep. Finally, the rusty springs of the camp bed creaked and Dean shifted back a few inches without opening his eyes, holding the corner of the blanket out. With Sam's back facing him, he only knew his brother was crying because the lean form began to tremble.

XXXXXXXXXX

Sam knew Dean was crying because he could feel the wetness falling into his hair. He wasn't sure whose tears were the ones that soaked into the pillow beneath them.

He was awake when Bobby came to check on them around nightfall but didn't move because it would have jostled Dean, who was still asleep.

As if sensing he was awake, Dean's breathing changed within a few minutes, and eventually, they both rose by silent agreement, dressed, and went downstairs to find their host.

Bobby clearly had no idea what to say, so he kept quiet, mostly, microwaving some dinner for both of them that Dean, for once, barely touched and Sam didn't even try. He did say, "Thanks, Uncle Bobby," though, in an attempt at finding something normal. That only made Bobby look sideways at him, and Sam realized that was the wrong thing to say, because he hadn't called the man "Uncle Bobby" in years.

There was a pyre built out back already, and Bobby had laid their father on the wood, still wrapped in sheets, though more neatly than the two of them had managed between them earlier. Dean was lingering in the doorway of the house, as if unsure whether he really wanted to come out. Bobby was behind him, though, and squeezed his shoulder with a calloused hand. Sam looked away.

They were about the light the pyre when Sam said, "Salt."

Bobby turned to stare at him.

"He was shot," Sam explained, looking down at his left hand, a little surprised when he didn't see the Colt there. "Twice .And suicide and murder and patricide are violent deaths."

The older man was looking at him like he wasn't sure what to do with him, and were those tears in his eyes? Sam had never seen Bobby cry before, though, so he figured he must be wrong. Then again, he'd rarely seen Dean cry, too, and he almost wished it would happen now, because that would have been better than the lost confusion in his older brother's face.

Bobby eventually cleared his throat and said, "It's taken care of, Sam."

Afterward, Sam didn't really remember watching his father burn—nothing except the fire and the heat, which made him think of Mom and Monica and his last day at Stanford and the demon and everything he'd never want to think of again. He felt guilty, like that pyre should have been burned permanently into his brain. He accepted that guilt, though, because it was really a small thing to feel guilty about after he'd stabbed a man (he wondered if anyone had ever—or would ever—find Jake's body), opened a door to Hell, and helped his father shoot himself in the heart. And then there was the demon blood, too, which was so far away from anything he knew how to deal with that he hoped it just never came up again. He knew better than to think he might get that lucky.

What Sam _did_ remember was Dean's face, because his brother's eyes were so intent that he knew Dean would remember every second of that night. Sometimes he wondered if he didn't remember watching his father burn because he'd been too busy watching his brother watch their father burn.

And then...they'd burned a lot of bodies before, but they'd never had to think about the ashes.

"What do you want to do with them?" Bobby asked.

Sam looked at Dean, but Dean seemed just as much at a loss as he was. There was nowhere they'd ever stayed long enough to call special.

Eventually, Bobby said, "Why don't I put them in a box, and we can bury them at your mother's grave."

It was such an obvious answer that Sam almost laughed at not having thought of it himself, but he stopped himself in time, because Bobby was already giving him—both of them—odd looks. Also, because Dean didn't look like he wanted to hear a laugh right then, and because he wasn't completely sure it was actually a laugh that was trying to claw its way out of his throat.

"Sure," Dean said."Okay." And then, "His truck's still in Wyoming. I should go bring it back here."

Bobby's uncertain look was directed at Dean this time, but he only said, " Jefferson's around there. I'll tell him to bring it by. Or Caleb, if Jefferson's tied up."

They stayed with Bobby for a week—to regroup, they said, but he wasn't sure what there was left to regroup to.

Occasionally, Sam saw the emptiness in Dean's eyes and was furiously, unaccountably jealous. Sometimes he thought it was because that emptiness could only arise from the kind of devotion and unconditional love that had never completely existed between Sam and their father. He had to turn away each time he thought that in order to hide the shame in his eyes, because he knew intellectually that the lack of devotion had only been one-sided, and because, in the end, he'd been the one who'd destroyed all chance of changing that between them.

Sometimes he thought he was jealous because that emptiness meant there was nothing left for Dean, and he then he hated himself for wanting to step into the gaping hole their father had left.

"I forgot about the Colt," Dean said one day while inventorying the trunk.

"I didn't," Sam answered. It was unnerving to be unable to read the look Dean was fixing on him. "It's in my duffel bag."

"Well, help me with this stuff. Bitch," he added, a beat too late.

Sam spent too long thinking about how the tone was so unsure and so unlike Dean's usual cocky confidence, and when he remembered his line, Dean had already slammed the trunk shut and was heading back into the house. Sam sighed and followed.

He hadn't forgotten the Colt because he'd let out an army of demons and who knew what else, and the Colt might be the only thing that could help them.

It didn't stop him from asking Bobby, "Can I look at some of your books?"

"You've never asked before, boy," Bobby said. Sam shrugged, because it was true—he usually simply pulled the books out for himself when he wanted to read, and the older man had never complained.

"I want to make sure I know what I'm doing," he explained. "Especially now."

"There's a storm coming," Bobby said in grim agreement. "I've never seen anything like it before."

"Can't afford to mess up anymore."

Bobby showed him which books might be more helpful, and before he left, he said, "Your daddy went out the way he wanted. You boys were everything he was living for. He was real proud of you, Sam."

Sam opened the first book and didn't look at the man. He didn't want to be praised for helping his father die, and he knew he and Dean were only part of what their father had been living for. He thought sometimes about how it could have gone differently, if their father had lived; but, with the demon gone, he wondered, sometimes, if he and Dean would have been enough.

"I opened the Devil's Gate," he said, hearing the words out loud for the first time. "I let an army of demons out of Hell."

Bobby was standing awkwardly at the doorway. "You didn't know," he said finally.

"Not exactly," Sam agreed."But I knew it would be pretty bad." He grimaced. "Even if I _had_ known what it was...I think I might have done it anyway." He met Bobby's eyes then, looking for condemnation in them. "What's that say about me?"

The older man snorted. "Means you're a goddamn Winchester, boy."

XXXXXXXXXX

"Do you blame him?" Bobby asked Dean one day. Sam had found a stack of ancient books that Dean didn't even want to try opening and was currently buried in one of them.

"Dad did what he had to," Dean said automatically, because that was what he'd been telling himself.

"I don't mean your dad, Dean."

Dean's jaw tightened. "I don't blame Sam, either."

Bobby pushed a beer toward him, letting him take a few sips before he asked, "You sure?"

Dean rubbed at his eyes. "I don't want to." Then, "No, I don't."

The older man nodded."What's happening now...it's gonna be big."

"Really? But it was just one itty bitty Devil's Gate," Dean joked weakly, but he really wanted to know the answer when he asked, "How bad can it be?"

Bobby was silent for a few moments, and he didn't exactly answer the question when he said, "You boys are stronger as a family, you know. You and your brother...you need to stay together. I ain't never seen a pair like you two."

Dean's snort was halfhearted. "Well, that's 'cause most people don't let a billion demons out of Hell."

"Don't get smart with me," Bobby told him sharply.

Dean met Bobby's gaze, then dropped his and didn't speak.

"I don't know where to start, Bobby."

As if satisfied, Bobby nodded and rose from the table. "You can start by washing the dishes. When your brother decides to stop memorizing all my exorcisms, you can go talk to him. You boys haven't said more'n five words to each other since you got here."

He sighed and stood. "Yeah."

He stopped halfway to the sink when Bobby added, "Dean." Dean stopped but didn't turn around. "You don't get to blame yourself, either. Only thing to blame is dead, forever."

And he _had_ meant to find Sam, later, but it ended up happening the other way around.

It was when he'd been about to bring the tire iron down on the hood of the Impala that a strong hand wrapped itself around his wrist. He stopped, panting with frustration, and didn't turn when he heard Sam say, "Don't."

Dean almost didn't recognize his own voice when he growled, "Why not?"

Sam didn't answer at first. Finally, he said, "Dad gave you this car."

"What kind of answer is that?" He dropped the tire iron and faced his brother.

Sam shook his head. "I wasn't answering _your_ question; just mine."

Pacing restlessly, Dean ground out, "Well, she's _my_ car now."

"I know," Sam said.Dean gritted his teeth and wished his brother would just talk in complete fucking thoughts instead of this enigmatic crap.

Finally, when the annoyance boiled into rage, he found himself yelling, "We grew up in that car, Sam! You and me and Dad...the three of us! And then when you left, when it stopped being all of us together..." Everything had started to fall apart then--they just hadn't realized it at the time. "It's always been the three of us, Sam, and he's _gone_. What'm I supposed to do now?"

"It could be worse." Dean glared at him, because he couldn't think of a way it could possibly have gone worse than it had. "We made it," Sam clarified, his voice quieter and less sure now. "You and me, Dean... and maybe we're all that's left, but we're still here. We've gotta pick up where he left off. Where _we_ left off."

The anger drained away, leaving him tired and empty. He leaned back against the car. "I don't know if I want to keep going. I'm tired of this." He didn't specify whether he meant just hunting or something else, and Sam didn't ask.

"I can't do this on my own." The thickness in Sam's voice made Dean study his face more closely, and the tears just beneath the surface reminded him that Sam's father had just died, too.

"You could go back to school. Meet a girl and marry her and have the life you've always wanted."

Sam's laugh was tinged with hopelessness. "I don't know if I ever really did want that. And even if I did...I can't, Dean. Not now, of all times."

"There're lots of demon hunters, Sam. You don't have to be in this fight." It was a lie, and they both knew it—all the hunters in the world probably wouldn't be enough to stave off full-blown war. He wondered if maybe Sam had been right all those nights ago, if the world really was coming to an end. He wasn't sure he'd care if it did.

"I can't forget who I am. I tried that once," Sam said, the edge of bitterness barely noticeable anymore when he said it. "And even if I tried again...I'm not sure what to believe anymore. Azazel said I had demon blood in me. And after the way I...killed Jake... I have to know. I have to fight it. And...Dean. I can't go on without you." He didn't specify, either, whether he meant the hunting or something else. Dean noticed but didn't ask, either.

Sam hadn't talked about what happened with Jake. Only that they'd fought and Jake had died.

Bone-weary of everything that had happened, Dean made himself ask, "Have you done anything since...since the demon? Anything psychic, I mean."

Uncertainty shadowed Sam's face. "No."

"Have you tried?" Sam shook his head. "Why not?"

Sam swallowed. "At the end, when Jake and I were fighting...I wanted it so bad, Dean. That power in me, and I didn't even care when it started getting out of control... I knocked him out cold and then almost went in and slit his throat while he was out and helpless on the ground."

A little disturbed at the image, Dean said nonetheless, "That's defense, Sam. It's allowed."

"That's not what I was thinking. It was just automatic, like I wasn't even stopping to make the choice. I just wanted to kill him. And it felt..."

"What?"

He choked out a laugh. "Comforting. Isn't that twisted? Like it was the one thing I could control. Made me feel strong."

Cocking his head, Dean looked harder at Sam and realized, "You're scared."

Sam glanced up at him, not denying, then said, "It could be gone now that Azazel's gone." It took Dean a moment to realize that 'Azazel' was the Grigori demon, and it made him wonder just what the demon had told his brother while they were apart, if they were on first-name terms. "Even if it's not...I'm not sure I wanna risk trying it."

"Well, okay, then. We'll leave it alone unless something comes up again."

Sam snuck another look at him. " 'We'?" he repeated hopefully.

His eyes fixed on the ground, Dean admitted, "I can't do it on my own, either." They both knew, that time, that he was talking about more than just the hunt.

The car rocked gently as Sam boosted himself up to sit on the hood, his hip an inch from Dean's arm, close enough to touch but not really touching.

"Thanks," he said.

Dean forced a chuckle. "For what?"

"For coming with me." Sam looked straight ahead, squinting at the setting sun. "For bringing me home."

For several minutes, neither of them said anything. Then Dean leaned to the side, just enough to make brief contact with his brother's leg, and stood. "We'll fight this thing together, Sammy. You know that, right?"

Sam nodded and smiled, small and sad but genuine. "Yeah," he said softly. "I know."

**FIN**

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Final Notes:

Whoa...I originally started this as a writing exercise, which was supposed to be about Sam at Stanford, with Dean and Dad coming and meeting him and his friends. There was supposed to be a werewolf attack, which turned into a shapeshifter attack after I'd started writing the beginning. It was also supposed to be resolved there, with Sam staying at Stanford and reconciling with his family, but it didn't sit right with me...so it changed, and changed, and grew, and grew...until my little one-shot turned into a 21-chapter semi-rewrite of seasons 1 and 2, with a little more exploration of the characters' relationships and a little bit of a twist on the lore. Perhaps because of the way it kept changing, parts of this felt less smooth and less connected than I'd have liked, but I really did enjoy it overall. More importantly, I hope I've gotten a better feel for the universe and the characters for future stories.

Thank you so much to everyone who has read and reviewed—I hope you had as much fun as I did!


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